


Cramer Street: Part II

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 366 [5]
Category: Alias Smith and Jones, Bonanza, Dear Ladies (TV), Laverne & Shirley (TV), Mulan (1998), Pocahontas (Disney 1995), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Acting, Agony Columns, Army, Beer, Berkshire, Betrayal, Business, Caring, Cats, China, Codes & Ciphers, Death, Disease, Disguise, Eloping, Embarrassment, England - Freeform, Exhaustion, Exploitation, F/M, Family, Fan-fiction, Framing Story, Friendship, Gay Sex, Golf, History, Hotels, Illegitimacy, Infidelity, Inheritance, Jealousy, Jewelry, Johnlock - Freeform, Justice, London, M/M, Madness, Male Prostitution, Misunderstandings, Murder, Nakedness, Nannies, Nobility, Organized Crime, Plans, Police, Politics, Pranks & Practical Jokes, Religion, Revenge, Rough Sex, Rugby, Science, Secrets, Shropshire, Slavery, Slow Burn, Somerset, Spiritualism, Staffordshire, Theatre, Theft, Trains, United States, Unrequited Crush, Vendettas, Victorian, Wealth, cover-up, cremation, stagecoaches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 57,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21885811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The Complete Cases Of Sherlock Holmes And John Watson. All 366 cases plus assorted interludes, hiatuses, codas &c.1881-1882. More cases solved in and around the mean streets of Marylebone, featuring a battered road-sweeper, an unhappy Chinaman, a 'manny', an aunt who is not an aunt, a filial problem for the Cartwrights down on the Ponderosa, a dead cat's revenge, a 'rash' relative, an unhappy male model, two ladies with a drinking problem, a Somersetshire conspiracy, two latter-day Robin Hoods, a Welsh yeggman, a stagecoach, and a cardboard box. Mr. Lucifer Garrick gets what he has always wanted and finds out that clothes HURT, while there is severe embarrassment for Watson when he tries to put one over on his friend only to end up cornered by two muscular and sexually desperate molly-men. Worse, there are – gulp – feelings!
Relationships: Hilda Bracket & Evadne Hinge, Jed "Kid" Curry & Hannibal Heyes, John Smith/Thomas (Disney: Pocahontas), Lucifer/OMC, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Shirley Feeney & Laverne De Fazzo
Series: Elementary 366 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555741
Comments: 42
Kudos: 26





	1. Contents

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vignahara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vignahara/gifts), [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



> This series is completely written and will be updated daily until done.  
> New cases are marked ☼.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contents page.

** 1881 **

**Interlude: Clothes And Cloisters**  
by Lady Aelfrida Holmes  
_Lady Aelfrida Holmes continues her 'inimitable' writings_

**Case 40: The Adventure Of The Companion's Bonanza**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The Cartwright family on the Ponderosa need Holmes's help_

**Case 41: The Adventure Of The Male Model ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_The handsome Mr. John Smith is having problems with his looks_

**Case 42: The Adventure Of The Love-Potion**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A case where a Little nearly went a long way – to Watson's horror_

**Case 43: A Great Little Adventure**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_The vanishing world of the stagecoach, and Holmes helps a friend_

**Interlude: Turnabout**  
by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire  
_Lucifer gets what he has always wanted – and lives to regret it!_

**Case 44: The Adventure Of The Resident Patient**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Someone in Holmes's 'distinctive' family makes a bad mistake_

**Case 45: The Adventure Of The Crossing-Sweeper ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
 _A man with a broom seeks Holmes's help when he is beaten up_

**Case 46: The Adventure Of The Cricklewood Brewery**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Lavinia Fenton and Shirley Faith share a drinking problem_

**Case 47: The Adventure Of The Scarred Scion**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A hair-raising case in which a yeggman saves one Mr. Vanderbilt_

**Interlude: A Good Friend**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_De Nile is not just a river in Egypt for a certain detective ___

__  
_ _

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** 1882 **

**Case 48: Murder At The Crossroads**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Holmes uncovers a devious murder and wears an ill-fitting coat_

**Case 49: The Adventure Of Mr. Smith And Mr. Jones**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_Holmes helps out Mr. Hannibal Heyes and Mr. Jed 'Kid' Curry_

**Case 50: The Adventure Of The Unhappy Chinamen ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Another circus case, and the Orient comes to London – for now_

**Case 51: The Adventure Of The Green-Eyed Monster**  
by Master Peter Wolf  
_A schoolboy narrates the story of a decidedly different nanny_

**Interlude: Prayerful**  
by Lady Aelfrida Holmes  
_Lady Holmes wonders why her son Randall is so into religion_

**Case 52: Garfield's Last Laugh ☼**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_A dead cat gains revenge on his killers, thanks to Hinge and Bracket_

**Case 53: The Adventure Of The Cardboard Box**  
by Doctor John Watson, M.D.  
_Holmes maps out where the loot from a robbery is hidden_

**Case 54: The Adventure Of The Welsh Wordsmith**  
by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire  
_A 'Strand' magazine case, where an aunt is not an aunt_

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	2. Interlude: Clothes And Cloisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1881\. Reality bites.

_[Narration by Lady Aelfrida Holmes]_

I was so proud of my sweet little Sherry-werry, especially now that his _very_ good friend Doctor Watson was going to start publishing their adventures together. I suggested to Sherry that he might like me to send the doctor 'Mr. Benn', a biting satire about an overly proud politician who keeps going into a clothes shop to change into different outfits and pretend that he is someone else, only to come out one day and find that his good lady wife had got the wrong (or possibly the right) idea when he had inadvertently brought home a loincloth. However Sherry said that they had to dash off to Shropshire on a case that dear Eddie had asked them to investigate, and that his friend's works were mostly fact while mine were fiction. Besides as he so rightly said, no-one could ever come close to the effect that _my_ wonderful writings have on people!

How true!

Dear Eddie also has some Important Matter on with the government just now – he had had a telegram from them just as I was telling him of my story and unfortunately it had demanded his immediate attention. I suppose that the Nation must always come first, even before my writings. There is also dear Eddie's intermittent deafness which is back again; I had hoped that his new doctor the handsome Peter Greenwood (a friend of dear Doctor Watson) might be able to do something, but he says that at my husband's age the only safe treatment would be to avoid any stress caused by too much listening to things. My poor husband will _so_ miss out on my stories!

Fortunately, we have Torver who is always on the scrounge for a free meal, and I know that he likes dressing up (which reminds me; I need to talk with him about those items in his drawer), he can edit this latest masterpiece for me. Meanwhile that case of Sherry's that had monks in it... perhaps it is time that I dug out that work I had to abandon about the medieval monastery music group, 'The Monkees'. With any luck I can get it finished quickly and Torver can edit it for me while he is here. The lucky boy!

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	3. Case 40: The Adventure Of The Companion's Bonanza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1881\. Holmes is distracted from other pressing concerns by his father asking him to assist a friend of his, one Mr. Benjamin Cartwright, whose plans for the future of his Ponderosa Estate have hit a sudden bump in the road. To wit, an extra son.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

If I had had any doubts as to my feelings towards a certain John Hamish Watson, they were very effectively dispelled by an even that happened only a few days into the New Year. My friend treated all sorts of patients and often came home looking exhausted, but on this particular day he returned to Cramer Street with what was most definitely a bruise on his cheek. I stared at him in horror.

“What on earth happened?” I demanded, perhaps a little too forcibly.

He looked surprised at my tone but answered readily enough.

“I was treating old Miss Brown for gastroenteritis”, he said, “and she lashed out at me with her stick.”

“But she did apologize?” I asked. He shook his head,

“She told me that she would be getting a better doctor in future”, he sighed as he sloped off to his room.

I stared after him, quietly seething that some stroppy old woman had dared to lay a finger on my.... friend. This warranted urgent action!

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Two days later Watson returned to our rooms in a much happier frame of mind.

“Miss Brown has formally apologized to me”, he said sounding astonished at that. “And the surgery has told her that not only will she not be seen again and that they expect payment of my bill within seven days, but if they do not get it they will take legal action and will also warn other surgeries in the area about her.”

He looked so much happier. It had been worth a visit to my parents' house and having to hear about Mother's newest efforts at fiction – seriously, time-travelling scientists going back to an orgy in Ancient Rome, let alone her calling it 'The Big Bang Theory'! - to have put a smile on that beautiful face.

I smiled to myself at Watson's reaction if anyone had indeed called him beautiful. He would pout so prettily, his cheeks would go that boyish red, his hazel eyes would glimmer like soft autumn leaves......

I was in so much trouble!

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Fortunately a distraction arrived a few weeks later when my father asked if I would help out a friend of his who owned a farm in Shropshire. I tentatively asked Watson if he would be able to come with me – it was one of my many failings that I too often assumed his compliance; I deserved the pain that I felt when I saw that look on his face that told me yes, I was taking him for granted again – but thankfully he agreed. He was coming anyway; had he not been available my father's friend would just have had to wait. 

Although the fact that my mother was looking for someone to read yet another horror – an area over a hundred miles away suddenly seemed that much more appealing!

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright owned a large estate in the Marcher county that lay not far from the small town of Bridgnorth in the Severn Valley. He was an American gentleman whose father had been a business partner of Father, my parent helping the son secure his inheritance that included the farm where he now lived. Watson filled me in on the history of the town as he knew it, which little interested me if truth be told except that I could have listened to him recite the business directory if....

As I said, so much trouble.

The oddly-named Ponderosa Farm was the centre of the estate and lay just south of Bridgnorth. The farm was a fair-sized place in itself, and I wondered more than a little about my client when I saw the name inside a sign shaped like a bull's head.

“The name dates to the English Civil War, from the Royalist commander Sir Buller Poundriss”, said my resident mine of information. “Sorry, I know you are not overly fond of history.”

He looked ashamed at his outburst. I had indeed told him that my brain functioned as well as it did because I did not clutter it up with unnecessary facts, but I could not be having him look so sad.

“Sometimes the key to the present is indeed in the past”, I said, relieved to see his face clearing, “and in this case I think the more recent past may be the key.”

“What exactly is the problem here?” he asked.

“Mr. Benjamin Cartwright came to this country when his father died, and brought his three sons with him”, I said. “My father knew his father as a business acquaintance and helped him overcome certain difficulties in securing this place. All three Cartwright men were from a different marriage which as we know can often lead to problems, although it seems that they get on well enough which.... well, families!”

He nodded. He knew.

“The three were all set to run the estate between them”, I said. “But now a potential fourth son has turned up.”

“You suspect that this new son is an impostor?” he asked.

“I do not know yet”, I said. “I managed to institute some inquiries in London before we left and hopefully they will clarify things one way or another soon enough, although the fact we are dealing with the United States complicates matters. I thought that we would call on Mr. Cartwright as a courtesy and then adjourn to the nearby town, where the potential extra son is also staying.”

“I would wager that the three sons he already has are far from happy at his arrival”, he said.

“Neither would most people be when they see their share of an inheritance cut from one-third to one-quarter”, I said. “From what little information I have on them they seem to have accepted it readily enough, but as we both know appearances can be deceptive. We shall soon see for ourselves.”

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Mr. Benjamin Cartwright was a solid, muscular fellow in his fifties, with a pair of keen blue eyes beneath his iron-grey hair. He was grateful to us for coming to investigate his problem (thankfully he did not make the mistake that rather too many people did of disrespecting Watson's role in my work, something which had led me to cease working for more than one client) and answered all my questions readily enough. He admitted that after the loss of his third wife in giving birth to his third son he had indeed sought solace elsewhere, so the newcomer's claims at least had some grounds.

His sons were as I said each by a different wife, and it showed. The eldest, Adam, was most similar in appearance to his father, a tall dark fellow who very evidently viewed us with suspicion but was prepared to respect his father's decision to bring us in. The second, Eric, was beefy and muscular ('someone' really did not need to whisper that at least we knew who had eaten all the pies, damn him!), and the third, Joseph, tall and almost otherworldly but friendly enough. A very mixed bunch; I wondered what the fourth son – or not – would be like.

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The answer was.... very different again. We arrived in Bridgnorth, a curious little town that was actually in two parts with an area down by the sinuous River Severn and an attractive upper town. I know it always annoyed Watson that despite all the walking he did in his job I always seemed to find climbing hills easier than he did. We stayed at a small and rather pleasant tavern on the (aptly-named for once) High Street.

We walked around the town that evening and Watson seemed unusually drawn to a small and uninteresting island in the river. I asked why.

“History”, he explained. “In the time of the famous King Alfred, the Vikings did not just give up after Wedmore†. A second and huge group tried to destroy his nascent state in 892 but they got chased all around the country and eventually pinned on that island. The king was clever; his guards were instructed to let a few off at a time and eventually the force was destroyed as a fighting unit.”

As I have said I did not 'get' his interest in dead people from centuries past, but if it made him happy to stare at a flat and barren island in the middle of a river, then that made me happy.

So much trouble.

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The next day I arranged for us to meet Mr. Henry McLeod who, I assumed, would be suspicious about our involvement in matters. To my surprise however, he was quite the opposite. He was about twenty years of age so slightly younger than the youngest Cartwright, dark-haired and quite willing to talk to us.

“I can see why Dad would want to make sure of things”, he said in a broad American accent. “I have no problem with you or a lawyer of his looking at my paperwork, Mr. Holmes, provided that I am there to see fair play.”

“Given the size of his estate such caution is indeed understandable”, I agreed. “You say that you are the result of an affair between Mr. Cartwright and an American lady visiting this country just over two decades ago, one Miss Henrietta Flagg?”

The young man nodded. 

“I was visiting the Old Country when I read about the old man's illness just before Christmas”, he said. “Naturally I waited until after it was over before introducing myself. They seem all right with me I suppose, though Hoss doesn't like me much.”

 _('Hoss' was I knew the nickname of the middle son Eric,_ not _so named as a certain snarky medical personage had suggested because he was built like a horse! Or had recently eaten one; incredibly said snarky medical personage was contriving to get even worse!)._

“We shall of course be instituting inquiries through the medium of the telegraph”, I said, “as well as here. May I ask which part of the country you were visiting when you made the discovery?”

He looked surprised at the question but answered it readily enough.

“Ayrshire, up in Scotland”, he said. “My grandmother – my mother's mother - came from Prestwick and I wanted to see what the place was like. Not that impressive at it turned out but I made a tour of the place for a couple of months.”

“I am surprised that you came over in winter rather than waiting for better weather”, I said. “Even with the wonders of the modern steamship, it must have been an unpleasant crossing.”

“It was not too bad”, he said. “Luckily I do not get sea-sick. My mother's brother Uncle Graham died last year and left some jewellery items to her, and I said that I would come over and get them for her rather than risk the postal service. She also has a major society event in May and, being perhaps a tad vain, she would like to be able to wear her jewels there once she has had them cleaned.”

“Then I do hope that we are able to resolve matters for you swiftly”, I said.

“I hope so too, sir”, he said politely.

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My inquiries down in London yielded little over the next few days except to confirm large parts of the incomer's testimony. A Mr. Graham Flagg had indeed died in Kilmarnock the previous year and in his will had left certain family jewellery items to his sister Henrietta, and Mr. Henry McLeod had indeed had a crossing on the 'Adonia' that November. It looked very much as if he was who he had said he was.

Until Watson, who so often underestimated his own talents, made a most astute observation that put me on the right track.

“This Mr. McLeod”, he said as we sat in an inn one evening. “He does have _some_ money of his own, does he not?”

“He does”, I said. “His mother was one of three daughters and all were named co-heirs to their father's estate. Unfortunately for our visitor both the late Mr. Graham and his brother Mr. George both married and each had a number of children, so he cannot inherit from them, but his mother's money is more than adequate to keep them both and indeed to afford him a long holiday in Great Britain even if it is part business.”

“I wonder that he did not bring a companion. then”, he mused. “People with that sort of wealth usually do.”

I stared at him in astonishment. He looked back, clearly perplexed.

“What?” he asked. “Have I said something stupid?”

“No”, I said. “Something very clever. When he was describing his trip to Scotland he kept saying 'I', yet surely someone of his means _must_ have come over with someone. I shall telegraph to London immediately and find out.”

“You will not”, he said firmly.

“Why?” I asked, puzzled.

He gestured to where a waitress was bringing over our meals.

“Your half a pig's worth of bacon is here!” he grinned.

He was right, damn him. I would have to telegraph later but I could do that from the railway station even if it was in the 'Low Town' as they called it. It would be worth a walk not to miss out on bacon!

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Watson, bless the fellow, had been right over the companion. The first crack in Mr. McLeod's story. Not as so often in my adventures an open lie, but an omission of the truth that made me wonder what else he was hiding. I instituted a new line of inquiry North of the Border and awaited developments with interest. Sure enough, they came.

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About two weeks later Watson, Mr. McLeod and I drove to Ponderosa Farm where we were to meet Mr. Cartwright. To give him credit the incomer had not asked if I had either confirmed or negated his claims but he did seem quietly confident. 

He really should not have been.

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright greeted us affably enough and the seven of us sat down. I caught Mr. Joseph's Cartwright eye and he nodded very slightly to me. Good.

“This has been a most interesting investigation”, I said. “I know that the modern policeman is far too often judged on how far and fast they run round gathering clues and making inquiries, but with the modern telegraphic system reaching even across the wide Atlantic Ocean that is not always necessary. I am pleased to tell you, Mr. Cartwright, that my investigations have reached a conclusion and that Mr. Henry McLeod is indeed your son.”

That clearly caught most people in the room by surprise. Mr. Benjamin Cartwright recovered first.

“You are sure?” he asked.

“As much as one can be”, I said. “Until they develop some sort of technology which can identify the father by blood or some such means, then one can never be one hundred per cent certain. But yes. You most definitely had a relationship with Miss Henrietta Flagg, later Mrs. McLeod, and a son was the result of it. The dates match perfectly.”

“This fellow?” Mr. Eric Cartwright said dubiously.

“There are however a couple of small points that need to be cleared up first”, I said, and I caught the way that Mr. McLeod's face fell at those words. “First, sir, you said that your mother was Mrs. _Henrietta_ McLeod.”

Mr. McLeod looked at me in confusion.

“She is, sir”, he said warily.

“Then perhaps you might explain something”, I said. “You see, I wired Mrs. McLeod and asked her one particular question which, although it doubtless surprised her, she duly answered. That question was as to how she preferred to be addressed.”

They all looked at me in confusion.

“Mrs. McLeod disliked her given name of Henrietta”, I said, “although she did not change it out of respect for her parents. But across the wide blue seas she always called herself 'Hattie. A true son of hers would surely have known that.”

Everyone was looking at Mr. McLeod now.

“I can call my mother what I wish” he said testily. “I do not like the short form at all; it is most disrespectful.”

“I rather think that the second matter will not be so easily disposed of”, I said calmly. “There is someone that I should like you to meet.”

I walked over to the slightly open door into the next room and opened it fully. A tall, broad-shouldered young blond fellow walked through.

“Gentlemen”, I said, “I would like you all to meet..... Mr. Henry McLeod!”

The impostor snarled and whipped out his gun and fired at the newcomer. There was a dull click – and nothing. Stunned, he fired three more times but all he got out of his gun were three more clicks before the Cartwright brothers were onto him. I applied the handcuffs that I had just happened to have had on me.

“You bastard!” he snarled at me.

“It takes one to know one”, I retorted. “One of my more questionable clients over the years has been one of London's top pickpockets. Rather than take payment in cash I took it in skills; I was able to take your gun from the pocket, remove the bullets then replace it. I had a feeling that you might react badly to the reappearance of the gentleman whose inheritance you were trying to steal.”

Mr. Benjamin Cartwright gasped.

“You mean.....”

I turned to him.

“This, sir, is the _real_ Mr. Henry McLeod, and from his face alone I would say almost certainly your fourth son. He came to Great Britain as we were told and did indeed journey around Scotland, but he also came with a travelling companion - Mr. Evan Jones here. It was Mr. Jones who read about your illness last December, sir, and who spotted a chance to acquire himself a great bonanza. He invented an excuse to have to return home early, but on leaving his friend came here and pretended to be him. His friendship with the gentleman he was impersonating had enabled him to learn much of the family, and the documents that he was taking back for his friend served a double purpose in reinforcing his story. I suppose we should just be grateful that he did not stoop to murdering him beforehand, hoping instead that he would return home none the wiser.”

Mr. Adam Cartwright looked uncertainly at the real Mr. McLeod.

“You sure look like dad”, he said warily.

“I sure do”, Mr. McLeod said. “And right sorry, sirs, to see what a man I had thought a friend was doing to my good name. My poor mother will be mortified!”

“Then you did not come over to claim part of the estate, then?” Mr. Joseph Cartwright said warily.

“Sir, I did not”, Mr. McLeod said. “Indeed as a bastard offspring I would have expected nothing – unlike my former friend here.”

“Impersonation is not a crime”, Mr. Jones said sulkily.

“You are forgetting the small matter of attempted murder in front of a rather large number of witnesses”, I pointed out. “Despite your being a United States citizen, I dare say that your own country will take a dim view of such proceedings.”

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Indeed they did. Given the then rather parlous relations across the Pond, the British government agreed to return Mr. Jones to his home land provided they received an assurance that he would be properly tried and suitably sentenced if/when found guilty. Despite the best (or worst) efforts of his lawyer twelve good men and true decided that he had indeed sought to kill his former friend, and he duly paid the full penalty. 

Even better, Watson was rewarded for his inspiration by my buying him three double-sized bars of chocolate from the sweet-shop in Bridgnorth before we left, one of which actually survived to see London. I was frankly impressed that it was even one!

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_Notes:_  
_† Not a treaty in the modern sense, more an agreement under which the defeated Viking leader Guthrum was baptised and sent off to be ruler of distant East Anglia where he was an annoying but manageable neighbour. This was 878; eight years later Guthrum did something else that was a bit too annoying and Alfred grabbed London from him. Six years after that (892) the second great Viking horde descended on the king's English Confederacy only to find it rather more prepared than they had expected, and ended up on that island in the Severn at Bridgnorth from where Alfred did indeed allow them to slip away a few at a time._

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	4. Case 41: The Adventure Of The Male Model ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1881\. Ah spring, when a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of.... what on earth is he doing with his life? Holmes is approached by a Victorian male model and asked to prevent him from ending up married! But there is more to Mr. John Smith than meets the eye.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It is very fortunate that I am never the least bit jealous, otherwise I might well have been entertaining feelings towards Holmes's latest client that an unkind personage might in an uncharitable moment have described as jealous. Which they most definitely were not. So there.

One of these days I am going to work out just how 'someone' can not-smirk like that!

The reason for my ever so slight sensation of unease was the only moderately attractive fellow sat in our fireside chair. Despite having the most ordinary name imaginable there was nothing ordinary about Mr. John Smith, a handsome, muscular blond fellow of about thirty years of age, He was in fact a distant cousin to his famous namesake who had married the ill-starred Pocahontas nearly three centuries back. The Victorian Mr. Smith was famed for modelling a whole range of outdoor clothes that, I suppose, looked passably good on him most times, although it was quite wrong of several of my clients (female _and_ male!) to have drooled over a magazine with him on the cover. He was not _that_ good-looking. 

His first statement to Holmes, perhaps fortunately, somewhat distracted me from his appearance.

“I need you to help me not get married, sir.”

Holmes quirked an eyebrow at that. Like him I was never so foolish to think that we had heard or would ever have heard it all, but this was something new.

“To _not_ get married?” Holmes asked.

Our guest took a deep breath. It belatedly struck me that for all his looks he came across as a deeply unhappy man. I thought that particularly odd; he was rated as one of the richest men in London from all his work, and he had far too many women (and quite a few men) idolizing him just because he was arguably good-looking in a certain light.

I might have to treat my friend later for that cough he seemed to have suddenly acquired. Also I detected that he had not been as surprised at our client’s request as I had been. I wondered why.

“I started this ramp because a friend of mine, Tommy, dared me to do it”, Mr. Smith began. “I... I will confess that I always have been a bit vain, and he said that I should make money out of my looks. I admit that I was dubious at first and he had to all but drag me along to my first session.”

“Do you not enjoy your work?” I asked.

“I did for a while”, he admitted. “I was hopeless at first, I admit, and they employed Tommy to stand behind me and get me into some sort of order. He is a bit of a runt but a good fellow; he has featured in some of my more recent shots. He said once that he is the 'before' to my 'after' which.... I would have objected but the photographer liked the idea and ran with it. For the past three shots he has been there looking awkward while I act all cool, calm and collected – right until the dratted photograph is done and I can be off to the changing-rooms.”

“So what has changed?” Holmes asked.

“Pardon, sir?”

“You seem to have initially been happy to pose with this friend of yours”, Holmes said. “Yet now you are not. Has something happened to him?”

Mr. Smith winced.

“At Tommy’s instigation I signed a contract with a new photographer”, he said, his face now one of open distaste. “An oily fellow who I do not like at all, but worse; he wants me to pose with a ghastly woman called Miss Laura Paddock. She looks at me like.... I can see her making wedding plans, sir! Worse, there is a shoot coming up in which I have to wear pyjamas and a dressing-gown while she is in night-clothes!”

I suppressed a smile. He sounded like he was describing a fate worse than death, having to just stand next to a presumably attractive female person! If only I could earn lots of money as easily as that.

“So”, Holmes said, looking at me for some reason, “this photographer does not wish to use your friend, and instead wishes you to stand around with some presumably attractive female person for which you will be earning lots of easy money.”

I glared at him. _How did he do that?_

“She is not that attractive”, Mr. Smith said firmly, “and her voice is like a nail scraping on a blackboard! Tommy does not mind either way; he has a steady job as an accountant with a business in the City.”

I was sure that I did not imagine it. Even though there was no visible reaction, I sensed a slight change in Holmes.

“I do need _all_ the facts for any investigation”, he said. “Tell me about your friend, please.”

“His name is Thomas Christian. No relation to the Mutiny on the Bounty fellow, at least as far as I know. He is not dissimilar in appearance to me except his hair is more ginger than blond but, in his own words, he 'has a face like a bag of spanners'! I do not know why he does not make more of himself; he has a decent figure and an honest face but he seems happy as he is. Lucky fellow.”

“That lucky fellow may be abandoning you not in the wide Pacific Ocean but to the wedding-hungry Miss Paddock”, Holmes smiled. “Her name is familiar from somewhere. Watson, have we encountered it before?”

I nodded.

“Only indirectly”, I said. “Chief-Inspector Michael Paddock was one of the senior officers on that list of Superintendent Horne's. Miss Laura Paddock is his niece although she is nearly forty years his junior.”

“I remember now; he was the one with the curious interest in hardware and bathroom fittings”, Holmes smiled. “Even for me, some things are perhaps best left uninvestigated! May I be allowed a rather personal question, Mr. Smith?”

Our guest looked curiously at him.

“I suppose so”, he said. “What is it?”

“Why is someone reputed to be one of the handsomest men in London Town still unmarried?”

I was as surprised as our guest was at that. It seemed a little too personal.

“There... is someone”, Mr. Smith admitted. “But with my career at the moment and especially facing the horror of Miss Paddock, I dare not make an approach. Besides, I doubt very much that they would have me.”

I was surprised at that too, although I again noted a slight change in Holmes for some reason. One day I would be able to work out just why.

Was he shaking his head at me? He was, damnation!

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Holmes promised to do everything that he could for Mr. Smith and we bade him farewell. He looked at me shrewdly as he sat down.

“You are reading me too well these days, friend”, he said. “Yes, some of what Mr. Smith had to say did surprise me. Fortunately I think that this case will be solvable with very little effort, although not without some pain.”

I looked at him in surprise.

“Pain for who?” I asked.

“Perhaps Mr. Smith himself”, he said. “And most certainly for the wedding-hungry Miss Paddock. For all her ambitions I am certain that she will not get Mr. Smith up the aisle any time soon.”

Now how could be so sure of that?

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Two days later Mr. Smith was back in Cramer Street. And if he had been depressed the previous time, now he was visibly angry.

“I got a job because some other fellow had pulled out at the last minute”, he said, “and they wanted another 'before and after' shot so I took Tommy along.”

“Did something go wrong?” Holmes asked. “Surely Miss Paddock was not there?”

“Worse!” Mr. Smith glowered. “The photographer was a fellow called Mr. William Biggs. Huge bear of a fellow and would you believe it, he took an interest in Tommy of all people!”

“I know you said that your friend does not share your own good looks”, Holmes said, “but they do say that there is someone out there for everyone.”

“This fellow would have made two of Tommy”, Mr. Smith groused. “Worse, he did not seem to mind the attention. I never knew that he swung that way, and when this Biggs fellow asked him to stay behind for some solo shots, I stayed too. I said that I had to wait for him.”

“Still, at least it was not Miss Paddock”, Holmes said consolingly. “It could have been worse.”

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“Now it damn well _is_ worse!”

It was the following day. Mr. Smith was back looking rather more dishevelled than the day before. Apparently the second day of his photographic session had not been a success either.

“What happened?” Holmes asked.

“This rogue Biggs finished all his shots and we were finally done”, Mr. Smith sighed, running his hand through his long blond hair. “Then he approached Tommy and asked him if he wanted to go for a drink down the pub. He knew damn well that I could not attend as I had told him that I had a second session that day – and with that dratted woman to boot! Then just as I was leaving I heard him tell Tommy, 'just call me Big Willy!'”

I snorted at that. They both glared at me, which was just unfair. I mean come on; how was I supposed to not laugh at that?

“To cap it all, Tommy did not come back to his room that evening”, Mr. Smith sighed.

“You share rooms?” I asked, surprised. 

He blushed fiercely.

“I let him have a place in the house that I bought in Kensington”, he said. “Huge barn of a place; it is way too large for just me and Tommy is one of the few people that I can put up with for any length of time. I... just popped down to see if he was all right.”

I wondered if the criminals nabbed by our friends LeStrade and Gregson (in between nabbing cake) came up with better ones than that. And Holmes had no right to tut at me like that!

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We had a different guest the next day, a strawberry blond fellow of slender build and unprepossessing appearance but with a smile a mile wide. Even I, one of the worst detectives in the world, could work that we were meeting 'Mr. Before'.

“Watson”, Holmes smiled, shaking his head at me for no good reason, “meet Mr. Thomas Christian.”

The young man bowed to me, then smiled at my friend.

“It worked?” Holmes asked. The young man nodded.

“What is left of Mr. John Smith is sleeping off his 'brave conquest' in his bed”, he grinned. “Or rather my bed; he could not manage the stairs once we were done!”

“Mr. Smith mentioned that Tommy does the accounts for a City business”, Holmes explained. “What he did not know was that business was my stepbrother Campbell's molly-houses.”

“I never did the business myself, doctor”, Mr. Christian explained. “What with having Jonno as a friend I always lusted after him, but with my looks I knew that there was no chance. That was until I caught him looking at me in a certain way during a shoot a while back. So I arranged with a photographer friend of mine to set up a session with the frightful Miss Paddock, and after he had endured that horror I suggested that he approach you over her.”

“With the result that the man recently on the front cover of a magazine apparently setting out to explore a strange new world has found one rather closer to home”, Holmes smiled. 

“I had better be getting back and helping him with those discoveries”, Mr. Christian smiled. “Your stepbrother Mr. Kerr very generously gave me a box of 'goodies' to try out on him, so if you do not see him around for a while you will know why!”

I shook my head at him. The young of today were terrible!

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What was left of Mr. John Smith came round to thank us three days later. He was actually crying at the effort of the stairs, but he seemed happy. At least until Holmes mentioned that his friend had obtained a second 'box of delights' for the coming weekend, when he looked absolutely terrified!

As they say, be careful what you wish for. You may get it - _Mr. John Smith certainly did!_

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	5. Case 42: The Adventure Of The Love-Potion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1881\. A medically-themed affair that starts with an explosion just along from Holmes's and Watson's rooms in Cramer Street and ends with proof that sometimes one really can have too much of a good thing. The good thing in this case being sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the Manor House case involving Doctor Adams.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

Few people can have exploded – quite literally in his case – into the lives of Holmes and myself than the hapless Doctor Nebuchadnezzar Adams. At a time of great medical advancement scientists were seemingly always making discoveries and pronouncements that sometimes caused me more than a degree of unease. I remember thinking that the day would soon come whereby Mankind would have to make some difficult choices about what could be done in the name of humanity and what actually _should_ be done. One of the first people to face that hurdle was Doctor Adams whose medical discoveries were – again, quite literally—explosive.

All right, because some horrible blue-eyed soon to be ex-friend of mine would not let me start this tale without saying it, I also had to include this story in the Sherlock canon because said horrible blue-eyed soon to be ex-friend of mine insisted, despite my own humiliation arising thereof! Harrumph!

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London then as now was a city full of surprises, not all of them pleasant ones. However few surpassed the one at breakfast that Spring morning when the city was for once not wrapped in its standard fog and looked (fairly) presentable. Holmes had had several cases since our trip to Shropshire and the Ponderosa problem but none had been worthy of note. I was sat awaiting my friend at the breakfast table; he continued to be absolutely horrible in the mornings although once re-caffeinated he would become (fairly) human.

I was perusing the 'Times' when suddenly there was a muffled explosion from outside. I hurried to open the window and on leaning out saw that there was smoke coming from the building – the daftly named 'Manor House' if my memory served me correctly – a little way down on the opposite side of the road. Fortunately there did not seem to be any flames and after a short while the smoke died away, probably to the disappointment of the inevitable crowd of onlookers who had as ever gathered with lightning speed....

 _“Must_ you be so loud?”

Holmes had emerged silently from his room, and I managed to knock my head against the window in surprise before pulling in and turning to face him. 

“There was an explosion!” I said, stating the obvious as ever.

He squinted at me in disapproval. Fortunately I was spared his witty retort by the sound of banging at the house door followed soon after by hurried steps on the stairs. Moments later our door flew open and a scruffy fellow all but fell in to the evident consternation of Janet the maid who was hurrying up behind him. He was about fifty years of age, balding, untidily dressed and clearly over-excited.

“Gentlemen!” he panted. “ _I_ am Doctor Nebuchadnezzar Adams!”

Had he declared himself the rightful King of England it would have better befitted his exclamatory tone. Clearly we were meant to either be impressed and/or to know who the blazes he was, and in both those ambitions he signally failed.

“Please be seated, Doctor Adams”, Holmes said calmly leading him to the fireside chair while I went to the table to get my notepad and pencil (after getting a coffee for my friend as I rather valued my life!). “Am I to assume that your presence here is due to the loud report that came from the street some minutes past?”

Somehow the doctor's face contrived to turn even redder.

“Sabotage!” he spluttered. “Those ne'er-do-wells at the University are jealous of my research.”

“Precisely what are you researching?” Holmes asked languidly, giving me (or more likely the coffee that I was handing him) a look of absolute love and adoration.

“Sex”, our visitor said firmly.

It was also fortunate that I had just handed Holmes that coffee as I contrived to trip over my feet during the journey to fetch my friend his second one. One really does not expect to hear such words first thing of a morning. Holmes simply downed his first coffee in one long gulp and looked unaffected either by that word or the scalding-hot drink that he had just imbibed.

“Can you be a little more precise, sir?” he asked, looking dreadfully mournful as having to wait for me to our him more coffee.

“I am researching as to whether gentlemen can increase their chances of acquiring a mate by intensifying their innate scent”, our visitor explained. “It works for some animals in nature, and I fully believe that it can be made to work for humans too.”

I frankly did not like that idea, but as I said that was one of the perils of advancing society through scientific research. One never quite knew what can of worms one might be opening next, most often not until all the worms were out of the can and well on their way to worm-freedom.

“What form do these investigations take?” Holmes asked downing the second coffee that I had provided him and looking at me as if I was some blessed saviour who had just rescued him from Purgatory. I blushed as I poured him a third cup.

“The subject attempts to boost their scent's carrying power by the application of various chemical compounds that I am experimenting with”, our visitor said. “My assistant Mr. Wade – a reliable fellow if a little young – is prone to give them fanciful names but fortunately that is his only weakness. We had what had seemed to be a modicum of success with the last one which he called 'Nightmare' because of its dark colouring, but our sole test subject has somehow been coerced into pulling out of the experiment. He sent a message this morning to say that he would not be coming in today, with details to follow. And now this!”

Holmes pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. 

“I think that the doctor and I should come and see your laboratory”, he said, “or at least what remains of it. I suggest that you return there and avoid touching anything, then the doctor and I will be along once we have breakfasted and dressed. You might use the time to assess the damage and make a list of anything that appears to be missing.”

Judging from his expression our visitor was a little put out by my friend's apparent lack of urgency, but he nodded and excused himself. Just as well; a Holmes without bacon was second in its sheer awfulness of a morning to a Holmes without coffee! 

My friend coughed and looked at me suspiciously. I did not blush. Much.

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Just under an hour later I and one thoroughly re-caffeinated and re-baconned detective were inside the 'Manor House'. Structural engineers were still checking the building but they had deemed it safe to enter, the damage fortunately having been restricted to part of one wall along the north side of the building that, fortunately, was not a load-bearing one and which faced out onto a narrow alleyway that ran between the Manor House and its neighbour. There was the lingering stench of smoke and of course the laboratory itself was a mess. Holmes looked around the place.

“You said that you are possessed of an assistant”, he reminded the doctor. “Is he available?”

“He should have been in by now”, the doctor said sounding vexed. “He sometimes works in the small room through there. I normally see him of a morning but I had arranged to visit my sister up in Essex today so I did not. I always go out via the back door as there is a short-cut to the station that way.”

He gestured to a battered green door in one wall of the room that was hanging by just one hinge. Holmes crossed the room and leaned around it, looking into the room beyond.

“Doctor”, he said far too casually, “can you come and take a look at this?”

Worried, I crossed the room and looked through the door. The small room behind was where the explosion had clearly been centred, the wall to the outside being the one that had been partly demolished. Evidently the connecting door between the rooms which had been damaged by the explosion must have been closed given the severe scorching all along one side of it. There was a small amount of shattered glass on the floor some of which was likely from whatever had been being experimented on and the rest likely from the blasted small arch-window above the door leading out.

There was also a dead body on the floor. 

“Mr. Wade!” Doctor Adams exclaimed in horror.

I hurried forward to the dead man and quickly checked him over. Apart from the fact that his horrified expression (which I tried not to look at) suggested that he had seen his doom coming upon him, it was unclear as to exactly what he had died of.

“A heart-attack is the most likely cause of death”, I remarked scratching my head, “but I cannot for the life of me see what caused it. He was a healthy young man and unless he had some inherent weakness of the heart, it is a mystery.”

“He was very fit”, Doctor Adams said. “He walked here from his lodgings every day even though it is some two miles away.”

Holmes looked thoughtfully around the room then nodded to himself before ushering us both out and closing the door behind him.

“Doctor Adams”, he said calmly, “today I would like you to do a complete inventory of things here and tell me what if anything is missing. I have an idea as to what may have happened here but as my friend the doctor knows I have an appointment in the City today that I cannot miss. It is a matter involving Her Majesty's Government, and as I am sure you can appreciate they do not expect to be kept waiting for anyone.”

I knew that he had no such appointment but guessed that he needed an excuse to make some inquiries without further annoying our client.

“I can stay and help”, I offered. “It is my day off.”

“That would be appreciated”, Holmes smiled, although I sensed there was a strain behind his smile. “I shall also need a complete list of everyone who came to the house in the past twenty-four hours and your assistant's movements up to the time of his death, as far as they can be ascertained.”

“Have you any idea who could have done this?” Doctor Adams asked. “Surely not someone in my profession?”

“My current belief is that your fellow doctors are innocent in this particular matter”, Holmes said, “but I would rather wait until you have checked to see what is missing. If it what I think it is then the matter can be easily resolved. I shall however be instituting inquiries into just why your current test subject withdrew in such a timely manner.”

Doctor Adams looked annoyed at the lack of information but I knew that Holmes would say no more. He left and I set about helping line up what remained of his samples.

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Our client had to dispatch a couple of telegrams presumably relating to his work before returning to assist me with our search of the ruined laboratory and back room.

“That is odd”, he remarked as we checked the remaining samples. “I am missing our one bottle of 'Nightmare'.”

I smiled covertly at the ridiculous name.

“How large a bottle?” I asked.

“The equivalent of sixty of these vials”, he replied holding up a tiny dark glass vial that contained what could not have been more than a teaspoonful of liquid. “Since Mr. Wade's notes were in that room I shall have to start again almost from scratch.”

“Is there enough in there for what you want?” I wondered. The doctor smiled.

“This is actually a full dose”, he explained. “Applied to the scent glands it magnifies a gentleman's innate scent by a factor of several dozen at least. It is powerful material, doctor.”

“A love-potion”, I muttered under my breath, once my fellow doctor had moved away. “In this day and age!”

I thought about that as I checked the scene of the explosion one last time. Under the solid oak desk which had survived the explosion charred but unbowed I found one more small vial, filled this time. 

I slid it quietly into my pocket. Because.

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I fully expected Doctor Adams to come round that evening but late that evening he wired us to say that he would have to stay the night in Essex and would see us the following evening instead. Instead I ran Holmes through the list of people who had come to the house.

“When he said he kept no servants, there that was not quite true”, I began. “The Manor House consists of four adjoining properties that are overseen by a housekeeper, a Mrs. Cayman. Frankly she is terrifying; I doubt even one of those Turkish rug salesmen could get past her; think Great Elizabeth but with more attitude! She has a whole group of maids to clean the place but they clean the four houses in the same order every day, and had not started on the doctor's house when the explosion happened.”

I opened my notebook.

“Doctor Adams's rooms had three visitors the day before the explosion”, I said. “The first caller was a fellow medic, a Doctor Philip Wealdstone...”

“Not him”, Holmes said at once. 

I looked at him in surprise but he said nothing. He had come home in a rather bad mood and I hoped that it had nothing to do with my possibly using too much hot water for the bath that I had taken on arriving not long before him. 

“At around two o' clock Doctor Adams's brother – well, his half-brother – Doctor Edmund Rusper called”, I said. “The two most definitely do not get on; Doctor Rusper part-owns a medical magazine which recently published an article that was highly critical of Doctor Adams's studies. And the visitor walked straight into the main room beyond which Mr. Wade was working. That was the time that the maids were cleaning the 'Manor House' that day and one of them showed him in.”

“Did they notice if Mr. Wade had spotted him?” Holmes asked.

“Doctor Adams told me that his assistant did usually leave the door open between the two rooms but that he also often got carried away in his studies”, I said, “and had not noticed he himself entering and leaving a room on more than one occasion. And finally Mrs. Sellers, one of the doctor's few regular patients called round to collect some pills just after Doctor Rusper. Because Mr. Wade sometimes got distracted, one of the maids let her in. The girl told me that she thought her coming was, and I quote, 'a bit rum'.”

“Why?” Holmes asked.

“She is rich enough to send a servant”, I said, “and has done in the past, although she claimed that she was visiting a friend in the area. Doctor Adams was in the house but in the water closet when she was admitted and she was alone in the main laboratory for some little time.”

“But no appreciable motive”, Holmes said. “No it cannot be her. What about the day in question?”

“Mr. Jacob Wade arrived at eight, half an hour ahead of his usual start time”, I said, reading my notes. “That was not so unusual; Doctor Adams said that he was always keen and never late. Their recent success had led to more tests being needed to be done, so presumably he had thought to get an early start on them. It was just as well that he was early because he had left his umbrella at the local paper shop and had to dash back for it.”

Holmes smiled knowingly. _I hated it when he did that!_

“He returned to the house at a quarter-past eight”, I said, not pouting in any way, shape or form, “and the explosion that took his life happened some fifteen minutes later. I do not see how that helps us really.”

“On the contrary”, Holmes said. “It makes everything almost completely clear. Tell me, did Mr. Wade have a lady friend with whom he was pursuing a relationship?”

“Yes”, I said, “someone he had been seeing for over a year. A local girl called Alice Salton, just turned twenty-one. What does she have to do with all this?”

“I hope to be able to tell Doctor Adams that tomorrow”, he said mysteriously. “By the way I eliminated the possibility of the test subject being in any way involved. Mr. Edward Allen inherited a house in Surrey from an uncle he barely knew existed and had to go there to sort out certain legal matters surrounding that as a matter of urgency. He did send the doctor a letter explaining all, which he wrote on the train down there, but doubtless it has not reached him yet.”

I nodded.

“The only thing that I do not know”, he said sounding vexed, “is as to whether this 'Nightmare' really does work as the doctor claimed. That would help me immeasurably.”

I smiled but said nothing. For once I would be ahead of him in the hunt!

All right, no need to say it. I really _was_ that stupid!

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I was at work the following day and arrived home feeling tired and footsore. There was no sign of my genius friend so I decided that this might be an excellent chance to test if my fellow medic really had created something that worked as he claimed. Applying the contents of the vial to my glands – it smelled atrocious, by the way – I readied myself to go out only for the visitor's bell to ring. I sighed in annoyance.

To my surprise it was Mr. Brendon Drummond from Mr. Campbell Kerr's molly-house. I had as I have said become an unofficial doctor to several of the boys there including the fellow with him, Holmes's cousin Mr. Lucifer Garrick's lover Mr. Anthony 'Tiny' Little. He was one of the largest specimens of humanity that I had ever come across yet a gentle soul, although having treated him quite intimately I knew now why Mr. Garrick often looked in such a sorry state. Mr. Little was unlike his name in _every_ department! 

“Campbell asked me to if I could bring Tiny over for a check-up”, Mr. Drummond said. “He wanted to ask if.....”

He stopped, then sniffed at me. His eyes widened and he actually _growled!_

“Mr. Drummond!” I protested edging towards the safety of my room. “Brendon! Stop it!”

“He smells gorgeous!” Tiny snarled. “Want!”

He removed his shirt and vest far faster than any gentleman should have been able to, and was at the door to my room before I could open it. I whimpered in fear as his huge form loomed over me and I felt Mr. Drummond moving in close behind me. I was a condemned man.....

“Hullo Brendon, Tiny.”

I blinked. Holmes was standing by the door out, looking as if he arrived home to find his room-mate about to be ravished on a regular basis (he did not). 

“Hullo, Mr. Holmes”, both 'boys' smiled.

Mr. Little slipped his clothes back on easily enough and joined his friend with Holmes, leaving me gasping there. My shortly to be ex-friend handed both gentlemen a coin each and the bastards both gave me knowing looks before they left. Holmes chuckled at my obvious annoyance.

“So, doctor”, he grinned. _“Does_ 'Nightmare' work, perchance?”

“You _knew!”_ I hissed. “How the blazes did you know?”

“You make a terrible poker player, doctor”, he smirked. “When I suggested finding out whether the potion worked or not last night you looked far too smug. I contacted Doctor Adams today and he confirmed that he was missing not just the large bottle but also two single vials. You took one and used it to further your own ends. For shame!”

 _“Shame?”_ I squeaked indignantly. “You set me up!”

“Yes.”

I glared at him then stormed into my room and slammed the door. Bastard!

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Doctor Adams was due back from Essex later that day so I was not surprised to see Holmes setting the table up for visitors. Nor was I surprised to see a pleased smirk on his face all day which I could well have done without! Even worse, I had had a call at the two gentlemen's molly-house that day (looking back I was sure that some soon to be ex-friend of mine had arranged that!) and I had had to cope with both Mr. Drummond's smirking and the huge bulk that was Tiny asking if he really had upset me. He looked so pitiful that I just had to say that I had forgiven him, despite the free smirking Scotsman in the background.

Poor Mr. Garrick. Tiny could have almost given Holmes lessons in that kicked puppy look!

Our client arrived punctually at half-past five as expected and Holmes bade him sit down.

“I am also expecting someone else”, he explained, “who I believe can help throw more light on the events surrounding your unfortunate assistant's demise.”

“His killer?” Doctor Adams asked clearly aghast.

“Not exactly”, Holmes said mysteriously.

Before either of us could press him to explain that cryptic remark there was a knock at the door. Holmes opened it and ushered in a small thin girl with flaxen hair and an expression that was verging on terrified. Doctor Adams looked surprised at the sight of her.

“Alice?” he said querulously. “What are you doing here?”

Holmes helped the girl be seated at the table opposite me, poured her a small drink and took his own position by the fireplace. I was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he enjoyed these moments in cases explaining what had happened and how he had cracked the case. Still I suppose he deserved his moment of vanity, even if he was a smug and totally inconsiderate bastard who took advantage of a poor gullible friend who had very generously and most considerately just been trying to help!

He shot me a knowing look and I pou.... scowled. _He could bloody well stop that and all!_

“When I said that Miss Salton here was 'not exactly' the killer of her beau Mr. Wade, I spoke the truth”, Holmes began with the sort of smirk inadvisable for anyone who expected someone else's bacon at breakfast any time soon. “It is a most unfortunate tale in that while Miss Salton was slightly responsible for Mr. Wade's death, he must bear by far the larger share of the blame. It was an accident arising from a most unusual set of circumstances.”

Miss Salton sniffed dolefully.

“While in your home yesterday doctor, I abstracted one of your vials of 'Nightmare'”, Holmes continued giving me a swift side-glance (my blush was not _that_ bad!). “I wished to have it scientifically tested by a friend in London to see if my theory, which I knew was right in every other aspect, correct on one final critical aspect. The telegram I received subsequently was only confirmation of what really happened that cold and terrible morning.”

“Mr. Wade comes to the house some time before his normal hour, which in itself was not so unusual. However I tied this in with something that you told me, Doctor Adams, namely that you expected to be away from the house that day but had been delayed in your departure which was why you were still there. In another part of the house and headed out the back, which was all well and good in light of what was about to happen.”

“Mr. Wade decides that with his employer absent he would smuggle in his girlfriend to keep him company at work. There are worse sins, and it was singularly unfortunate that in this case such a minor transgression was to elicit so major and terminal a penalty. He arrives early and enters as per normal. Next, he passes his long-coat out through the narrow window over the door in his room to Miss Salton who is waiting outside. As you told me that door is kept locked and you have the only key, so no-one could have gained access to the house that way. He knows that as you told us you do not come to the laboratory on days you are visiting your family, and even if you did he could always lock the door to his own little cubby-hole.”

“After a few minutes Mr. Wade tells one of the maids that he has left his umbrella at the paper-shop and would be dashing back to retrieve it. He returns instead to his room and some minutes later Miss Salton disguised in his long-coat manages to join him undetected. It is a busy time of the day for the servants who have to clean through four adjoining houses, and we also know as did Mr. Wade that they always start at the other end of the block, so there would be little likelihood of anyone spotting that the person who enters the house soon after is shorter and thinner than the one who just said he would be leaving it. The entrance to the laboratory is also near the front door to which Mr. Wade does have a key, so the risk of detection is minimal.”

Miss Salton blushed and looked at her shoes.

“It is now, unhappily, that disaster strikes”, Holmes said. “Doubtless Mr. Wade had explained to Miss Salton that the 'Nightmare' preparation greatly increased the human scent, enabling the wearer to more likely attract a suitable mate. I would surmise that at an untimely moment Mr. Wade has to visit the water closet which we know is off the back room. Miss Salton, fatally, decides to surprise her beau and applies most of the large bottle of 'Nightmare' to herself.”

Our guest tried unsuccessfully to bite back a sob. Holmes sent her a comforting look.

“You could not know that you had so greatly exceeded the recommended dosage”, he said ruefully. “Poor Mr. Wade came back into the room, walked up to you, took one sniff—and promptly had a heart-attack! The desire and the want overloaded the human body which, at the end of the day, is a fragile thing. Something that today's scientists might do well to remember.”

I noticed Doctor Adams lowering his glance at the reproof.

“What about the explosion?” he muttered to the fireside rug.

“In her panic to get out I would suggest that Miss Salton knocked over the remains of the solution”, Holmes said. “We know because you told us that Mr. Wade often had several sets of chemicals on his table where he worked. While your compound seems to have some, ahem, success in its aims Doctor Adams, my scientist friend tells me that it is quite reactive and exposure to a quantity of more than one common chemical could result in an explosion. Clearly that was what happened this time.”

“I hid behind the desk when I saw the black stuff bubbling”, Miss Salton said, her voice breaking as she spoke, “and that saved me from the worst of the blast. Poor Jake was just lying there dead as a door-nail. I got out through the broken wall down to the back alleyway.”

“Clearly not murder”, Holmes said firmly, “as there was no premeditation let alone motive. Rather a tragic accident. I might suggest, doctor, that your researching energies be directed somewhere else in future?”

The doctor nodded fervently.

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“Poor Miss Salton!” I said later once our guests had gone their separate ways. “She only wanted to surprise her beau and look what happened!”

“Indeed”, Holmes said. “People who mess with things they know not are asking for more than a _Little_ trouble.”

I looked at him sharply but he merely smiled innocently back at me. I did not believe that look for a minute!

“How did you know that none of the three people who came to the house could be involved?” I asked.

“Because when I checked under the oak desk the scent of what I now know to be Miss Salton's perfume was still there”, Holmes said. “Neither of the men would wear it and as it is an exceptionally cheap and common fragrance I did not see someone as rich as the sole female visitor using it either. Let alone what she might be doing under the desk in the first place!”

“Do you think that they will ever manage to create something that will work like 'Nightmare' should have done?” I wondered. “After all that is what humanity is all about – finding your perfect partner.”

“Something that most people strive for”, he agreed. 

I wondered not for the first time how I might feel when one of us found their perfect partner and moved out. It would surely change our friendship in some way, possibly even breaking it. For some reason I felt cold at the thought.

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	6. Case 43: A Great Little Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1881\. Mr. Campbell Kerr has a favour to ask his favourite (and only) stepbrother concerning Mr. Anthony 'Tiny' Little, whose family is being.... family. And Watson takes to what is a very bumpy road.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

If I had been possessed of a pair of decent running shoes, I might well have succumbed to temptation and openly called Watson either 'cute and/or 'adorable' when he pouted like that. He was still sore after I had had two of my stepbrother's boys 'ambush' him in the recent case concerning Doctor Adams and the 'love-potion', and every time I looked like mentioning it he would pout so damn ado..... 

No. Besides, he always knew when I was thinking of saying one or both of those words, and pouted even more as a result.

It was perhaps unfortunate, for Watson at least, that the mischievous Fates caused the great Mr. Little to be central to our next investigation. He and Campbell came round the day after May Day and a certain doctor pouted even more adorably at my friendly greeting to the pair of them. Worse for him he could not even say anything; Tiny (I still had to smile at the idea of the nearly seven-foot behemoth beside him being called by such a name) could pull one of the worst 'woe is me' faces that had anyone giving in to him on whatever he wanted, although being seven foot tall that usually happened pretty much anyway. It certainly did with my poor cousin who, I later learned, had been unable to accompany them because we lived on the first floor and stairs... not after his last weekend with Tiny!

I really did have terrible relatives!

To be fair to (what was left of) him, Luke had not had an easy life. Although my father had secured him a government job at eighteen and he had established himself there very well, he had always been anxious because of his 'semi-attached' position to the family as Campbell's cousin, which was why he had not had his first sexual encounter with a man until his mid-twenties, when Campbell had (with Mother's connivance!) set him up with Balin and Balan. The Selkirk twins still dropped by from time to time and for two years Luke had had another of my stepbrother's molly-men, a handsome cab-driver called Mr. Cheiron Jones, as his main lover before the latter had come into an inheritance and had left for the United States. So for the past five years his place had been taken by Tiny, who loved my cousin with a blind loyalty that permeated his whole frame, even if he regularly reduced him to a quivering wreck (sometimes with the help of supplies from me when Luke had been that shade too annoying). 

The unpleasant Mycroft had found out about Tiny and predictably had gone running to Mother about it. Even he should have known better; she had immediately come up with a story about the two – the unforgettable (much as one might try) 'Upstairs, Downstairs' – and had insisted that Mycroft be the first to hear it!

Karma can be a not-nice female personage at times!

“I am hoping that you can ride to the rescue for Tiny here”, Campbell said. “There is a chance that we might lose him.”

“How is that?” I asked. “I thought that you were happy here, Tiny?”

As ever he took a little time to formulate an answer. He was actually very well read but found long sentences and conversations in particular trying. Although in his 'business' I doubted that that was much of a problem, and Luke always said that he himself could barely talk after....

'Someone' was getting another bumper box of supplies very soon!

“My father runs mail-coaches through Lambourn in Berkshire, sirs”, he said. “He wishes me to take over the company.”

"To run it, not to own it", Campbell clarified.

“Surely that is not much of a long-term business?” Watson asked.

He was right of course; the railways were advancing everywhere. Who would use an uncomfortable stagecoach or mail-coach when one could get to one's destination by a mode of transport that was at least four times faster, infinitely more comfortable _and_ much cheaper?†

“Little's runs coaches from the town of Lambourn in all directions”, Campbell explained, “west to Swindon, south to Newbury and north to Wantage. They used to run mail-coaches as well but now it all goes in the single coach, such is the decline even with the railways only running around the area. There have already been plans to connect Lambourn to the railway network at Newbury, which is the only route on which they make money these days. Such a line‡ would ruin them.”

I looked hard at my stepbrother and as ever he understood me. We could both see that Tiny was working at getting another sentence out and that we needed to wait for that.

“My father”, he said hesitatingly, “he... he is not a good man.”

I was impressed that in so few words he could utterly condemn someone like that. If Mr. Anthony Little described someone as 'not a good man', then they were likely the devil incarnate. I knew that despite the behemoth's size he really was the most gentle of creatures; Luke often spoke of how he loved the simple things like reading and just being out in the country. The bastard had of course gone on to say that those things included walking up and down stairs while impaling my cousin!

Maybe a quadruple session as well as those extra supplies......

“Do you have any brothers or sisters, Tiny?” I asked. He shook his head.

“There is the Snitch”, Campbell said.

Watson and I both looked at him. I noticed how Tiny had reddened at that name.

“Who is that?” Watson asked.

“His cousin Sly – Sylvester Little”, Campbell said. “Horrible little worm; Tiny introduced me to him the one time he came to London. I have seen all sorts of low-life in my profession but my fists itched with that villain, especially the way that he spoke to my boy.”

“Do you believe that he would wish to inherit the estate, Tiny?” I asked. The behemoth shook his head.

“He cannot do that”, Campbell said. “The estate belonged to Tiny's mother, and although she married his father at a time when the law still said that a wife's property becomes that of her husband, she herself had inherited it on condition that it remain in her own family until a direct male descendant of the original fellow who got it back in the Civil War days wanted or needed to sell it. His father can live there but cannot sell the place, although I doubt that it is very profitable what with the way land is these days. The coaching business is all that is keeping it afloat just now, and if this railway ever does materialize then that will be that.”

I wondered if ruining the company might well enable Tiny's father to be able to sell the estate and then spend the money on himself. It was not long ago that the behemoth's mother had left her husband and gone to live with her sister in Newbury. Luke had arranged for Tiny to go down and see that she was all right and he had said that the thanks he had got for that... yes, a quadruple session _and_ supplies. I might even go to my cousin's funeral!

“I know that I should not use the word”, Campbell said, looking suspiciously at me (I may or may not have been rubbing my hands together) "but thankfully Mr. Simon Little is dying. He hates Tiny with a passion so he is no great loss to humanity.”

I thought for some moments then turned to Tiny.

“Is your father aware of what you do for a living?” I asked carefully. 

He smiled at my choice of words.

“My cousin has made sure of that, sirs!” he said forcibly.

“Then your father is doing this out of spite”, I said crossly, “merely to inconvenience someone that he does not wish to leave his estate to. He must be dissuaded from such a course of action.”

The look on Tiny's face was one of utter incredulity. But then he did not know just how I intended to go about that persuasion.

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Only a few days later and there were three of us at Paddington Station awaiting a train to Reading where we would have to change for the line to Newbury and thence the coach to Lambourn. I had planned to bring Tiny all the way but the look of horror when I had suggested it had caused me to make a last-minute change, and I had promised him that we would drop him off to visit his mother's house when we reached Newbury. Campbell demurred at it but I insisted on paying him for a full day of his 'services'; I knew that he needed the money despite Luke's help. The look of gratitude on the behemoth's face when I promised him that I would help resolve matters for him without his having to go to his father's house in person and he hugged me impulsively – it was up there with Watson's Utterly Adorable Non-Pout of Displeasure! It was even worth not being able to breathe for several seconds while an annoying soon to be ex-friend smirked for England! I hated people who smirked too much!

At Newbury we said goodbye to Tiny and boarded the mail-coach. The Lambourn Valley was a beautiful area, although the uncomfortable journey by coach reminded me of why the railways were superior in every way. Hopefully the town would get its railway and prosper, but I had felt that we could hardly approach Mr. Simon Little for what I had in mind without first sampling the 'joys' of his transport network. Although judging from poor Watson's slightly green complexion, we were most definitely returning by cab or carriage!

Sutton House lay on the southern outskirts of the pleasant market town, and we were duly received by Tiny's poor excuse for a father. I could see why the gentle giant had been afraid of him; he was clearly one of those short bullying types who only gained joy from someone else's misery. Which made what was about to befall him even more pleasurable. I exchanged a quick look with Watson and he nodded at me. The fellow before us was indeed not long for this world, and as I had already decided that was in no way a bad thing given his character. I pointedly waited for the servants to withdraw before I began.

“My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, “and this is my colleague Doctor Watson. We are representing a certain gentleman who, for reasons that will soon become clear to you, wishes to remain anonymous.”

He was clearly suspicious of that, as would I have been. I hurried on.

“I can however tell you that he is a ruler of one of the small but strategically important Arabian states along the southern shores of the Arabian Peninsula”, I said. “To be blunt, he is not someone that the British government wishes to annoy in any way, especially given the precarious situation as regards the Ottoman Empire just now. He has however made a request which even the prime minister has felt to be, ahem, somewhat questionable, which has brought me here today as a matter of urgency. I only wish I could have had more time to make my inquiries, but the gentleman is leaving our shores first thing tomorrow morning and..... not to put too fine a point on it, he wishes to take something back home with him.”

Mr. Little was still looking at me suspiciously.

“What has this to do with me, sir?” he demanded.

“The item that he wishes to take with him is your son, Anthony”, I said.

I could read him like an unpleasant book; surprise, uncertainty and then seeing the chance to rid himself of someone that he did not like at all. I thought of the happiness on the giant's face as we had seen him off to his mother's house; he deserved much better than this excrescence as a parent.

“What is in it for me?” he demanded.

I managed to not feign surprise. And Watson really did not need to cough like that.

“The gentleman is not the sort who is accustomed to people saying no”, I said carefully, “especially as in his homeland he can have them beheaded for so doing. He has not approached your son as of yet....”

“What does he want with the useless lummocks, anyway?” Mr. Little demanded.

“He needs another eunuch.”

Mr. Little coughed violently into his drink. That had surprised him all right!

 _What?”_ he demanded.

“Someone to supervise all those wives”, I said. “Putting it as delicately as possible, your son's.... proclivities make it unlikely that he would be interested in any of them himself, although my client has said that if he ever did..... well, as the music-hall song goes, 'it's never too late to castrate, mate'.”

The cruel light in the fellow's eyes was sickening. Time to move in for the kill.

“The problem however”, I said, “is his inheritance.”

“What do you mean?” Mr. Little asked.

“When you pass, this estate becomes the property of your son”, I said. “You know how the newspapers are in this country; someone is _bound_ to talk and they will track him down, which will cause a most tiresome diplomatic incident. The government would _not_ be pleased, to put it mildly. Unless of course your son is prevented from inheriting.”

“I tried that”, Mr. Little said sourly. “Lawyers told me the damn will was watertight, worse luck.”

“I know”, I said. “Fortunately in the short time that I had to plan this visit I was able to institute some inquiries into your family, and they came up with a potential way round that.”

He looked at me curiously.

“What way?” he asked. 

“The estate was originally granted by King Charles the Second to your ancestor Mr. Adonijah Little in the year 1661”, I said. “His eldest son Elisha later married a Scotswoman and went to live with her in her homeland, to Mr. Adonijah's grave displeasure, so he added a clause to the inheritance rules that if someone inherited and was then out of the country or subsequently departed it, they would lose their entitlement and the estate would revert to the next in line.”

“Smart fellow”, Mr. Little said.

“He was”, I said. “Unfortunately in this instance he was outwitted by the tide of history; he lived until 1708 just after the Act of Union when England and Scotland became one, thus negating the clause in his son's case. Mr. Elisha was thus able to sell his Scottish lands and return to Berkshire. However, if your son were to inherit the estate and _then_ leave the country he would be debarred from inheriting. Or.....”

I hesitated for effect.

“Or if he left involuntarily”, I said. “Not that he would ever make it out of.... wherever he might or might not be taken against his will. Let us just say that there will be copious amounts of sand, a lot of gentlemen wearing white and maybe even the occasional camel.”

The cruel look on the fellow's face was sickening me. I reached into my brief-case and produced some legal papers I had just happened to have had on me.

“That is the only way around your problem”, I said, “although I am afraid that it requires an element of trust on your part. If you revoked your own claim on the estate and forced your son's inheritance, then the minute that he leaves the country he would lose his claim and you would regain control. However I understand that that is a lot to ask....”

“Where do I sign?” he demanded.

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“But what will you do when he contacts his lawyers to check up on this?” Watson asked as we drove at a sedate pace back towards Newbury and the train home.

“I have arranged for an actor friend of mine posing as a clerk from the company to call in by chance tomorrow”, I said, “and he will certify all the documents as valid. Mr. Little will also get a reassuring message from him in about a week's time that further checks have shown that his son has indeed quitted the country. He can depart this world in the knowledge that his foul actions have achieved their ends, and will then have an eternity looking up from Hell to see how he was duped.”

“What will Tiny do with the estate, I wonder?” he asked.

“Campbell was afraid that he would want to live on it”, I said, “but he says that he wants to sell it and give the money to his mother. He is happy in his life at the moment, because he trusts Luke and Campbell to look after him. He is a child really.”

“Some child!” he scoffed. “He is huge!”

“Indeed”, I smiled. “Enough to put the fear of God into anyone – including doctors who meddle with love-potions, perhaps?”

And there it was, another glorious pout!

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Postscriptum: Mr. Simon Little did not live long to enjoy his feeling of having disinherited his son, dying less than a month after we had met him. Tiny succeeded to the estate and with the help of some lawyers that I put his way was able to sell it and see his mother comfortably set for the rest of her own life, a happy one as she had already found someone much more worthy of her affections and soon married them. Her new husband was even accepting of his stepson although as Watson perhaps correctly remarked, who would not be? And we would be meeting Tiny again just over a year from now and for the last time in a long while, as it might truly be said that his ship was about to come in.

Unfortunately for Watson, as things turned out. And for someone in my family as well.

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_Notes:_  
_† Modern comparisons are difficult, but before the days of steam it cost roughly the same to travel from London to Brighton by stagecoach as it did to stay in a decent hotel at the popular resort for a whole month._  
_‡ The Lambourn Valley Railway was incorporated in 1883, two years after this story is set. Work however proceeded slowly and it was not until 1900 that the first train ran. The independent company lasted only five years before being compelled to sell out to the Great Western Railway; its dead-end nature rendered the branch vulnerable to road competition and it closed in 1960. There were efforts to reopen it as a heritage line but in this instance British Railways managed to prevent that._

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	7. Interlude: Turnabout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1881\. It is said that turnabout is fair play. But for Mr. Lucifer Garrick, it is going to be more of a case of being a damn sight more careful what he wishes for - and not wearing clothes for a while because of the chafing!

_[Narration by Mr. Lucifer Garrick, Esquire]_

“Are you all right, Mr. Lucifer sir?”

I tried to regain my vision and stared blearily down at Tiny's huge form, his muscular arse which I had lusted after for for so long now sucking what little life was left out of the poor, broken Demonator. _What the hell had I been thinking?_

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After Sherlock had sorted out everything as regarded Tiny's family and in particular taken care of the behemoth's mother, he had been very grateful. And as the recipient of that gratitude he had said that I could have anything that I wanted. I had tried not to think of the obvious – come on, I really had! - but we had been together for five years now so of course he had seen right through me.

“You want to lead for once, sir”, he said shrewdly. “Just this weekend, then. Because you're so good to me.”

And with that he was stripping off which his usual efficiency. Finally I would get a piece of that glorious arse!

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Which brought me back to my current predicament. No human body should be made to cope with having orgasm after orgasm dragged out of it like that. My cock hurt and my balls ached like never before, yet he had kept pulling performance after performance out of me until he had actually made me pass out. Then when I had come to it was to find he was ready for me and at it again! To cap it all some horrible cousin of mine who had a lot of explaining to do had chosen this moment to slip the behemoth a whole load of Campbell's supplies which.... he really was going to kill me through sex!

I then had to take a whole week off work, as clothes..... no. Just..... no; I was way too sore to even think of it. To cap it all the teasing behemoth resumed normal service on Monday without so much as a break, such that I had to declare a ban on all sex the following weekend to give my poor, broken body time to recover.

Wow! Just... wow!

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	8. Case 44: The Adventure Of The Resident Patient

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1881\. Holmes investigates the case a little too close to home, and Watson tells a little white lie. Because.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

The Victorians, it has often been said, were all about family, and this is a story about family. Holmes's family. 

I do not even have to look up to know that he is rolling his eyes just now!

My friend's family was a mixed bag - he really needs to stop rolling around on the floor like that! - and I privately thought it a good thing that at least his elder brother Carlyon (whom I had seen at a distance in the Park but not been introduced to) had married and had produced five sons. For two reasons; it reduced the expectations on Holmes to marry – he had once shown me the Wedding Order Of Service (framed) that his mother had presented him one time! - and it annoyed Carlyon's elder twin Mycroft who had thus far had five daughters but no sons; he was the sort of person who made his disappointment at this very public. 

There was also Holmes's sister Annabella, his stepbrother Campbell and his cousin Lucifer, all of whom I knew he held in high regard even if the two gentlemen were sometimes a little too frank with him over certain, ahem, private matters. Of the remaining brothers I had already met the foul and irredeemable Randall, had briefly encountered Guilford and had yet to meet Torver. In this last case I was more blessed than I could then appreciate; the last Holmes would devastate my life more than any of the others soon after he did finally appear.

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Two months had elapsed since our return from Lambourn when when we had assisted the Brobdingnagian Mr. Anthony 'Tiny' Little in the matter of his inheritance, during which there had been a steady stream of mostly uninteresting cases. In June my story about the 'Gloria Scott' case began to be published in the 'Strand' magazine in six instalments. It received a positive reception and I thought little of it until I was approached by the well-known publishers Brett & Burke. They had been assembling a book containing twenty-four detective stories each written by a different writer and one had pulled out at the last minute, so they wished to use my story. I felt a little irked at being brought on as a 'substitute' in this way but their payment was generous and Holmes agreed, so I said yes. The book sold well and I received a substantial sum for what amounted to zero effort on my part, which made me happy and my bank-manager even happier. He almost smiled at me when I went into the branch one time.

Well, almost!

The book's sales were pushed by reviews which were extremely positive, two critics singling out my work for particular praise. Unbeknown to me Holmes was at this time yet again having difficulties with his family. I made the mistake of asking him what he had thought of my writings, and he sniffed that I 'tended towards the over-dramatic'. The criticism stung and I retorted that that was what people wanted in such stories. He looked startled by my reaction but I stormed off to my room in a show of petulance that my teenage self would have been proud of.

I was still cross with him the following day (although of course he got half my bacon at breakfast) and unusually he went out before me, saying that he had to get something. I wondered glumly if he had a new case and did not wish for me to accompany him. It would have served me right if he had so chosen, behaving like I had. Sighing, I packed my bag and left for the surgery.

It was almost predictably a long and a trying day. Over half of the patients I saw had nothing really wrong with them; they just wanted to spend money to be told that they had acquired some illness that they could boast about to their friends. I felt particularly grouchy and left the surgery as soon as I had got rid of my last patient who had thought a mild autumn cough enough reason to see a doctor. And she was a bad payer as well!

I stomped back to our rooms and was almost grateful to find no sign of my room-mate. Or so I thought until I saw a small jewellery-box at my place on our table with a folded piece of card on top of it. The single-word message read 'Sorry!'. I smiled in spite of myself, removed it and opened the box.

Seconds later my jaw hit the floor. 

Four months ago. It had been just after Holmes and I had visited Sergeant Gregson at his station to discuss a minor case. My friend had wanted to buy his sister an engagement present so I had agreed to tag along while he shopped afterwards. He had purchased her a gold necklace from a jewellery shop whereas I had been entranced by a silver gentleman's bracelet that was decorated rather strangely. I had asked about it and the shop-owner had explained it was the letters O, V and A repeated for the saying _omnia vincit amor_ – love conquers all. Despite the mushy sentiment I had been entranced by such a manly item but as I said it was silver and there was no way that I could have afforded such a bauble without possibly being responsible for my bank manager dying of a heart-attack, book sales or no book sales! But Holmes, damn him, had remembered.

“Hullo. Watson.”

I looked up and he was standing at the door to his room, looking uncertainly at me. The room must not have been dusted that day for I had unaccountable tears in my eyes. That had to be it.

“I would wish you to wear that on special occasions”, he said softly still not approaching. “Whenever I see it I will be reminded of the value of your friendship, which I know that I do not always appreciate. I am sorry that I was so unfeeling in what I said.”

It was at times like this that I really wished Victorian Man was allowed to express himself more fully. Shaking my friend's hand and blubbering my thanks seemed poor reward for such an act of unwarranted generosity. But it was one of many occasions on which I learned that the great mind was accompanied by an even greater heart.

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I was tentatively writing up my notes for our adventure over the Musgrave Ritual and still smiling like an idiot every time I looked at my new bracelet when we happened across our next case. Or to be more exact our next case happened across us. It was only a minor matter and no crime was involved as such but it was important in that it shed light on several aspects of my friend that had hitherto remained hidden from me, which is why I have included it in the canon. Not forgetting the total lack of sympathy that I felt for the 'victim' who fully deserved to have their folly exposed to the world!

As I have said before, our Cramer Street house was owned by Mrs. Evadne Hall whose fragrant (and pungent) presence had so alarmed me upon our first encounter. The way in which she had batted her eyelashes at poor Holmes had been frankly vomit-inducing. Fortunately she had indeed concerned herself primarily with her own house in Belgravia leaving the management of Cramer Street to her sister Miss Letitia Hellingly. A much smaller (and as I also said, far less pungent) character, she always looked almost apologetic when either Holmes or I handed over our weekly rent. Her servants kept our rooms adequately clean and her cook was passable with occasional bursts of quality, but she herself rarely ventured upstairs, confining herself to her own suite at the back of the house. 

It was therefore with some surprise that I returned from work one day to find that lady in our suite of rooms talking to Holmes. For some reason it was only at that moment that it struck me that both of them were unmarried and moderately attractive people. I did not know why but that observation made me feel a little uneasy. It must have been something that I had eaten; as I said the cook was only passable. 

Miss Hellingly was clearly somewhat perturbed at my return and swiftly took her leave. Holmes sighed.

“It may be that our landlady had provided us with a potential case”, he said. 

I was somewhat distracted at this moment as Miss Hellingly's presence had caused me to run over Holmes's singular lack of interest in the fairer sex more or less ever since I had known him. It is the way of the world of course that many a young buck will have sex with almost anything that moves (and for that matter with almost anything that does not!) but we were both approaching an age when we would be expected to settle down with a wife and start raising a family. Depressingly I would be thirty in four months' time, over two and half years before Holmes which was blatantly unfair!

Given our circumstances both of us had to careful in selecting potential partners if for different reasons. I needed someone financially secure while he would probably have to win his family's approval, an even higher hurdle. He could do a lot worse than our landlady - and worse, she was going to the United States in just two years so he.....

“Watson?”

He was looking at me in confusion. I blushed.

“Sorry, my mind was elsewhere”, I said. “What was it that you wanted to tell me?”

He looked at me uncertainly, but thankfully did not push the issue.

“Miss Hellingly is concerned over her newest tenant, the gentleman who has taken Room Three”, he said. “She is a little paranoid simply because he refuses to admit the maid to his rooms, and insists that his washing is collected and returned outside his door.”

“He probably just values his privacy”, I said. “Knowing her, I would wager that Miss Hellingly thinks that he is a secret axe-murderer!”

I would have thrown in a further remark about our landlady's choice of reading at that point as she tended towards the cheap romantic novels beloved by far too many ladies in those days. However she had praised my Gloria Scott story so clearly she had at least some good taste.

“Our landlady is also quite observant”, Holmes said looking hard at me for some reason. “She may not stoop to listening at keyholes but on passing the room the other day she was certain that she heard a lady's voice.”

“Highly improper”, I said, wondering how many times the landlady had had to 'pass the room' before she had heard that. “If she thinks that that sort of thing is going on in her own house then she would be fully within her rights to give the tenant a week's notice.”

To my surprise Holmes blushed. What was going on?

“It is the case”, he said slowly, “that a certain amount of romance may be involved.”

I stared at him in surprise. Holmes and Miss Hellingly? Had I been right after all? My heart sank.

“So that is why she wants you to investigate”, I said a little dourly. “Well if she has a great detective on hand I suppose it is only natural.”

He nodded and at that moment the bell rang to inform us that dinner was ready for our attention. I felt inexplicably grumpy for the rest of the evening.

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Two weeks later the carelessness of a maid added a whole new aspect to the mystery of Room Three.

The Bloomsbury Surgery lay in a row of high-class houses, and on the afternoon in question a fire occurred at the property next door. This it later emerged was due to a maid leaving a fire unattended. Fortunately London's finest were soon on the scene and were able to douse the flames although the house in question was somewhat damaged. Worse, the firemen asked that we quit the surgery until structural engineers had checked it for damage. As that would not be for some hours our remaining appointments that day were rescheduled and I was back at Cramer Street an hour or so ahead of my time. Which may have been why I saw an unusual if not unknown sight outside our house.

The carriage of Sir Edward Holmes. 

I wondered if the baronet had come to see his youngest son or possibly myself, and went on up to our rooms. To my surprise they were empty of any Holmes, but as I was standing in the doorway I heard the sound of someone leaving Room Three on the floor below. Stepping out and peering over the balcony I was surprised to recognize the unmistakeable red curly hair and powder-blue dress of Miss Annabella Holmes, my friend's sister whom he had pointed out to me the one time - _and she was emerging from Room Three!_ I stared down at her in shock. 

It would of course be my bad luck that Miss Hellingly 'chanced' to come down the lady's corridor at that precise moment (I wondered not at all cattily how many times she had patrolled it since Miss Holmes's arrival) and meet her. They conversed briefly and judging from the way the visitor gestured upwards I assumed that she was ascertaining if her brother was at home. I realized this a moment too late for she glanced up and saw me, and even though I backed away quickly I was sure that was I saw on her face was alarm if not fear. Certain it was that she did not come up but swiftly left the house.

I briefly considered questioning Miss Hellingly as to our noble visitor but decided to desist, for now at least. I had a more pressing problem, namely whether to inform Holmes that his sister had visited in his absence and had conversed with the mysterious stranger in Room Three. Or – and I shuddered at the thought – what if she had been the female whose voice had been heard? Was she, an engaged woman, conducting some sort of illicit liaison with the occupant, and if so why in the very same building where her own brother was living? 

I needed a drink. Or three.

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I had decided not to say anything to Holmes about our visitor. It goes without saying that I should have known better.

“What has upset you, Watson?” he asked over dinner that evening. Miss Hellingly's cook had for once surpassed herself with a curried meat dish that had been divine and we were both sat by the fire feeling comfortably full (the ice-cream had been vanilla rather than chocolate but one could not have everything). “You have been off ever since I got home.”

“Did you go out on a case today?” I said trying to deflect. He clearly saw my tactics but chose to answer my question.

“Every so often I go and meet Luke and/or Carl at my club in order to use the gymnasium facilities”, he said. “My occupation is fairly sedentary so I need the exercise.”

I instinctively pulled in my own very small gut. And wondered how he could not-smirk like that.

“You are upset over the lady who visited Room Three earlier this afternoon?” he asked.

Damnation! He must have spoken to Miss Hellingly when he had come in.

“Not exactly who I was expecting”, I muttered.

“A slightly shorter than average height lady wearing a blue dress, with either red or dyed hair.”

“Miss Hellingly did not mention her name?” I asked.

“I have not spoken to our estimable landlady today.”

“Then how could you know....?”

“There was a blue thread caught in the bannister which was not there when I left after lunch”, he said. “There was also a single red hair on the carpet leading to the door when I returned. The visitor was obviously very very well-off.”

“How could you know that?” I asked wondering if he was teasing me.

“She came in her own carriage”, Holmes said. “A four-wheeled vehicle was parked for some considerable time in front of our house, long enough to leave an indentation in the road surface and a small paint marking smeared onto the kerb. Our city's hansom drivers do not go to the expense of painting their vehicle's wheels in bright colours.”

“You know who it was!” I said exasperatedly.

“Do I?” he asked seemingly confused.

“It was your sister!”

Oh. Judging from his reaction that was about the only thing that he had _not_ known. There was a silence that was several degrees beyond awkward.

“You are sure?” he asked, his voice unnaturally quiet.

“I saw your father's carriage outside”, I told him. “And I saw her come out of the room.”

“Did she see you?” he asked quietly.

“Yes. I am afraid that she did.”

He pursed his lips. There was another overly long silence.

“I think that I should pay a call on my sister tomorrow”, he said. “I am sorry Watson, but in the circumstances I would rather do it alone.”

“It is family”, I assured him. “I understand.”

He smiled weakly at me.

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The whole business of Holmes's sister's visit to the house bothered me as I could not make head nor tail of it. Why would Miss Annabella Holmes be seeing someone right next to where she must have known her brother lived, yet without telling him? And Holmes had definitely brought her an engagement present that time at the jeweller's, unless something had happened to cause her to break it off. But surely he would have told me about that?

Eventually I determined to think no more on the matter and to enjoy a rare Friday off. Those plans were somewhat curtailed however when I heard a terrible scream from outside my door. I hurried out and looked over the stairwell, and saw Miss Hellingly leaning back against the bannister looking as white as a ghost. I immediately hurried down to her and escorted her to my room – propriety be damned; this was an emergency! - where I gave her a large brandy. I sat her by the fire and eventually some colour returned to her cheeks. She looked at me, clearly still shocked.

“Doctor Watson!” she gasped. “It was.... horrible!”

“What was?” I asked.

“That.... 'thing' in Room Three!” she gasped. “I was making my rounds just now...”

 _Eavesdropping as per usual_ , I translated.

“... and _he_ opened the door to fetch in his paper. It was ghastly! His face was all wrapped up like.... like... like one of those terrible Egyptian mummy things!”

I poured her another brandy which she downed in two goes. Quite impressive really.

“He could just be an injured soldier from one of the wars”, I pointed out gently. “Doctors often bandage up those gentlemen's faces to prevent wounds getting infected, you know.”

She looked at me suspiciously.

“Then why did Mr. Holmes's sister say that he was her brother?” she demanded.

“She may have been lying”, I suggested delicately. Apparently not delicately enough, for the landlady went pale again.

“I need Eric”, she said much to my confusion.

“Who is 'Eric'?” I asked, causing her to turn a shade of red that nearly matched her dress.

“”My..... my gentleman friend”, she admitted reluctantly. “He is a doctor like your good self.”

That was why I would never make any sort of detective. I had noted my fellow medic Doctor Eric Frodsham calling at the house from time to time but I had never linked him with Miss Hellingly. Well at least that meant she was not seeing Holmes. My mood lightened for some reason.

“You should send a servant round and ask him to call”, I suggested. “I think that in the circumstances he would wish to be here for you.”

She nodded vigorously and I escorted her from the room. Then I returned and read my book for a while, smiling for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

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I liked to think by the time that in our seven years of acquaintanceship and five years of co-habitation I had come to know Holmes fairly well. Events at the start of that evening however made me start to reconsider that belief.

The fellow had arrived back from his sister's house and he was clearly _livid!_ What made it more impressive was that there was no shouting or yelling, just a focussed silence that in many ways was infinitely worse, like the tremors from a volcano that is about to explode. He virtually threw himself into his fireside chair after dinner, a look on his face that definitely did not invite conversation. I wanted to ask about his visit but was actually afraid to.

“My father is coming round later”, he said once dinner was over. 

“Would you like me to step out?” I offered. I could hardly go to my room and eavesdrop on his conversation (unlike some landladies that I could mention, a part of me added far too cattily if quite accurately). 

“No.”

He said nothing more but stared darkly into the fire.

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It seemed an eternity before Sir Edward Holmes was shown in by a clearly impressed Miss Hellingly (I fervently hoped that she would not embarrass herself by patrolling the corridor during his visit although thankfully Doctor Frodsham had arrived at the same time as I had returned which might keep her busy). I instinctively wanted to thank the nobleman again for his help in my becoming a doctor but the positively Arctic chill generated by the great detective made me hold back. Never mind putting ice in the whisky; Holmes could just have given it a look and have frozen it solid!

“I should leave and let you talk”, I said heading (escaping) towards my door.

“No!” Holmes said, to my surprise. “You will remain, Watson. What my father has to say concerns you as much as me.”

“I hardly think that this is wise, son”, Sir Edward Holmes said, and I could see that he was strangely nervous.

“You passed wise some time ago!” his son growled. 

To my surprise his father bowed his head.

“I deserved that”, he said.

“You did”, Holmes said acidly. “Despite being possessed of certain siblings who make murder seem a reasonable if not laudable option, I had never actually been ashamed to be a Holmes until this happened.”

“Until what happened?” I asked bewildered.

“Go ahead and tell him”, Holmes snapped. His father sighed and turned to me.

“You have been a good friend to my son, Doctor Watson”, he said gravely. “Indeed....”

He stopped, seemingly lost. I stared at him in confusion.

“Father!” Holmes snapped. The baronet looked annoyed but did not reprove him.

“Mycroft, Torver, Randall and Guilford. They became convinced following your publication of Sherlock's first case that you had ulterior motives in your friendship towards him.”

I blinked. I had no idea what he was alluding to.

“What motives?” I asked. “He will tell you, I offered him half of all proceeds from the magazine sales, and from the book. He declined.”

“It was not just the book”, Sir Edward Holmes muttered. “They thought that you were... corrupting Sherlock.”

“Corrupting him how?” I asked still totally at sea.

“Bodily”, Holmes said. “My family things that we are dating. And having sex.”

How I did not have a seizure there and then I do not know. I wanted to voice my feelings to such a suggestion but words failed me. 

“Have some understanding, doctor!” the baronet said almost pleadingly. “Until you have children of your own you cannot know what it is like to worry about them, no matter how old they are. Any perceived threat would make any decent parent move to counter it.”

“By setting up a spy in another room in the lodgings he shares with his alleged 'lover'?” Holmes said bitterly. “I presume that I was right in assuming that it was my trickster brother who came here to spy on us both?”

“Guilford insisted on doing it himself”, Sir Edward said. 

I had thought that things could not be worse, but now Holmes had that knowing gleam in his eye that quite frankly terrified me. Yet again I thanked the Lord that he had never become a criminal. He would have ruled London more surely than our dear Queen ruled her Empire!

“You owe Watson an apology”, Holmes said firmly. “He and I have a friendship and we are both very happy with that. To suggest that there is more is not just folly, it is insulting.”

“You moved in with him”, his father pointed out. _“And_ moved to stay with him. There is an air of permanence about this.”

“I am an extremely difficult person to live with for over ninety-nine per cent of the human race”, Holmes sighed. “At least I have enough sense to accept that. Watson, saint that he is, more than tolerates my ups and downs.”

I preened while trying not to snigger at the mention of ups and downs (yes, my occasional schoolboy sense of humour showed its poor timing as ever). My friend saw my reaction and a small smile creased the corner of his mouth.

“Besides”, he went on, “Watson helps me with my cases and not just in publicizing them. He has a straightforwardness that keeps me grounded, and he sees things in a way that I sometimes cannot.”

I preened a little more. Sir Edward Holmes seemed shocked by his youngest son's vehemence. Finally he nodded.

“I understand”, he said. “I am sorry that I allowed this, son. But I so find it difficult to let go....”

“Father, I am twenty-seven years of age”, Holmes said sounding almost impatient now. “It really is time that you learned to trust me.”

“I do trust you son”, the nobleman said. “I am proud of what you do. Well, the detecting thing.”

Holmes nodded and seemingly relaxed a little.

“Did you go and see Guilford on the way up?” he asked.

“I did”, he said, “but he was asleep in his room. You know the hours that he keeps.”

Holmes nodded. The evil smile was back again. I did not tremble; it was just cold in the room. Again.

“I should be going”, the baronet sighed. “At least....”

He got no further for the door to our rooms burst open and Mr. Guilford Holmes all but fell into our room, looking rather less pristine than in our sole brief encounter at the Plaza Hotel. His clothes were untidy and, more significantly, his face and hands were covered in virulent red and purple blotches. He looked at us in horror.

“Father!” he blurted out.

He looked briefly (and guiltily, I noticed) at his brother then hurried over to me. 

“They say that you are a doctor”, he said urgently. “Please, you have to take a look at me!”

“Sit over at the table”, I ordered, “and I will fetch my medical gloves so that I can examine you safely. If you have something infectious we do not wish to risk spreading it around.”

He followed my instructions and I went to my room to fetch my gloves. On returning I saw the nobleman looking anxiously at his stricken son. Holmes however looked almost smug. Curious.

I carefully examined the new arrival's face where some of the marks were now blistering into an even deeper shade of purple. Hmm. I had a feeling that I knew exactly what had caused this rogue's problems. I tentatively sniffed at one of the marks and suppressed a smile when I recognized the smell. 

I took a breath, stood back and faced my patient with a suitably sombre expression, shaking my head at him.

“This is _very_ serious”, I said firmly. “In all my years of medicine it is one of the worst cases of _Inritaris Fratris Maioris_ Syndrome that I have ever come across. There is no medical treatment for this horrible and dreadful disease.”

The man's eyes widened in horror.

“Doctor!” he wailed. “Please!”

I noticed that Holmes had turned away to the fire presumably to hide his expression if his slightly shaking shoulders were anything to go by. Presumably his father had also understood my Latin reference because he was looking decidedly amused. At that timely moment I remembered what else that Holmes had said about his brother and decided to push the knife in further. He deserved it for spying on my friend.

“The good news however is that a complete change of diet is however very effective at stopping this malady in its tracks”, I said. “You must avoid any and all sweet things, most particularly confectionery, for at least six months. Preferably a whole year.”

The man looked like I had struck him.

 _“No sweets?”_ he gasped, as if I had told him to cut down on breathing.

“Not even a cough drop”, I insisted. “Just one solitary sweet could cause the current infection to spread across your whole body. And in the advanced stages of this disease we are talking the disabling and even loss of, ahem, the male organs.”

I thought for a moment that he was going to have a seizure. Fortunately for him his sufferings were brought to an end when Holmes let out a huge guffaw of laughter and collapsed into his chair.

“Watson, you are a genius!” he chuckled. _Inritaris fratris maioris?_ That is brilliant!”

“What is so funny?” his brother demanded crossly. Sir Edward Holmes chuckled too but took pity on his son.

“Guilford, _inritaris fratris maioris_ is Latin for 'irritating elder brothers'!” he explained. He looked at his youngest son and grinned. “Soap?” 

Holmes nodded. The nobleman turned back to his elder son.

“Sherlock knew who you were”, he explained, “and he must have slipped into your room to replace your usual soap with a special abrasive one which causes the skin to blister rapidly. My so-called friends used it on me once at school. Do not worry, son. It fades after twenty-four hours.”

“About as long as the powder on your flannel which made your face turn bright blue yesterday”, Holmes grinned. “Serves you right, brother.”

I was pleased to see my friend looking so happy.

“I was only doing it for your welfare!” Mr. Guilford Holmes grumbled. “Now look at me!”

“I think that everyone will be looking at you for a while”, his father remarked. He turned back to his youngest son. “I am truly sorry that we did not trust your judgement, son. We will know better in future.”

Holmes nodded. The nobleman took his still blushing elder son and left.

“Thank you for that”, my friend smiled. “I thought that you might tell him the truth straight off.”

“After the way he and his family treated you?” I asked. “No way! He deserved to suffer a little longer. Though I think that that is the first time I have ever knowingly lied to a patient.”

We ordered some coffee and talked happily on matters familial for the rest of the evening. I sat on the couch writing up my case notes and Holmes lay next to me, looking as unkempt as ever. No wonder his father had thought.....

I smiled at the ridiculousness of such an idea.

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	9. Case 45: The Adventure Of The Crossing-Sweeper ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1881\. In a city of over a million souls, there is bound to be more than the odd argument. But over a broom of all things?

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

When Great Britain finally defeated Napoleonic France back in 1815, it was a victory not just for freedom over tyranny but for the generally free trade approach of London over the restrictive mercantilist† practices of Paris. That had brought a general increase in wealth, but as always the gap between those at the top and bottom of society only ever seemed to increase. Nowhere was this demonstrated more in the peculiar job, largely defunct in what seems to be becoming the automobile era, of the crossing-sweeper. 

The late Victorian age was of course that of the horse-drawn vehicle, which meant that streets were always dirty with dust and.... political promises. A crossing-sweeper would take up his station near a busy crossing with their broom and sweep the road clear ahead of a rich lady and/or gentleman who would then tip them (always a pittance, of course) when they had made it safely to the opposite pavement without stepping in anything or anyone unpleasant. It will be understood therefore that the busiest crossings were as hotly sought after as the prime begging posts in the capital, and scuffles between crossing-sweepers were common. It was just another part of London life, but when the fellow who patrolled near Cramer Street was set upon and badly beaten, Holmes decided to take action.

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Our local crossing-sweeper was a short, unprepossessing fellow by name of Mr. Thomas More, and he could not have looked less like his illustrious namesake short of donning a wig and a dress! He was short, red-headed and had a face that looked like it had been badly drawn by a child. But he was a decent fellow and I had treated his wife one time (free, of course), so I was worried at what had befallen him.

“I've no idea, doctor”, Mr. More said as I started on another bruise. “Three of them just came at me and said this was their patch now. I was stupid enough to stand my ground, much good as it did me.”

“You work at the junction with Moxon Street do you not, More?” Holmes asked. The fellow nodded.

“What with the work they're doing knocking down those houses across the road from you, sir, people cross at the top to avoid the dust”, Mr. More said. “It was a pretty good patch but now I shall have to find work elsewhere. If I can.”

_(The observant reader will be able to work out that one of those houses to be demolished was the Manor House, home of the unfortunate Doctor Nebuchadnezzar Adams whose case had resulted in a very small degree of embarrassment for one of us. After the explosion caused by his experiments with certain potions (and someone sat in his chair had better damn well not be smirking!) the place had seemed to have survived, but a later study had showed that it was in a structurally poor state and the decision had been taken to condemn the whole row. It made for a noisy time for us across the road, that was for sure)._

“Do you get the same people every day, More?” Holmes asked.

“Mostly I do, sir”, the sweeper said. “Some of them can be right up themselves if I don't sweep fast enough for their pleasure or get too close to their nice clean clothes. It's a difficult balance, sir.”

“We shall take an interest in this matter”, Holmes said. “Your 'pitch', More, was not among the most lucrative in the capital, especially with the main road just over the back. Unless someone is for some reason trying to establish a monopoly of sweeping up before rich people – and in a city this size, there may indeed be people that strange! - there may well be more to it. Here.”

He handed Mr. More a card.

“That is my brother Carl's address”, Holmes said. “I know that he has a reputation for being about as approachable as Mount Everest in a storm, but he is always looking out for reliable men to do odd jobs around his barracks. It is not much but it would help while you look for something more permanent.”

Mr. More looked surprised but took the proffered card.

“Thank you, sir!”

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Later the two of us walked to the north end of Cramer Street, and I could see Holmes's point. This was definitely a backwater among London streets, while as he had said Marylebone High Street that ran parallel to Cramer Street and only a few dozen yards away was a busy thoroughfare. I knew that they had several crossing-sweepers there as I often came back that way on my rounds. It all seemed rather odd.

Mr. More's replacement was at his post at the junction with Moxon Street, broom at the ready and with a scowl that could have probably swept the road even without one. He was a huge, muscular fellow, and Holmes frowned when he saw him. 

“I should have asked Mr. More for help in this”, he said. “Watson, could you go round to his house and ask for me? That way you could check up on his children while you are there.”

As I have said before, I really admired the way in which Holmes treated what were called 'the lower orders' such as the likes of Mr. More. I myself did my philanthropic work among these as well as among Sherlock's stepbrother Campbell's 'boys', often getting a much greater sense of achievement that from my sometimes-paying (and always-whining) 'official' clients. He explained what he needed and I set off to Lisson Grove.

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I was sure that Holmes had paid Mr. More well over the odds for his day sat in a room overlooking his old stamping-ground where he had been asked to list all the people, as far as he knew then, who crossed that day, and with descriptions if he could not put names to faces. Fortunately despite my hardly ever glancing at the social pages of the newspapers I was able to fill in quite a few of the gaps, which I thought impressive. Even if said generous act elicited something perilously close to a smirk from a certain bacon-stealing detective that I could have mentioned!

“Here is something rather odd”, I said as I scanned down the list of the great and the good of Marylebone. “Lady Butler crossed there.”

He looked confusedly at me.

“Why is that odd?” he asked.

“She is known as Black Dawn”, I smiled, “because she wears so much make-up that no-one is sure what she really looks like. She has a most distinctive black hat and always wears something else black so it must have been her, yet I know that she lives in Manchester Street because she always tells everyone that whether they ask for it or no.”

I could see that he had got my point. At that time the Gardens that lay between Cramer Street and Manchester Street were not open to the public, so there was no reason for that woman to have gone such a long way round to get here.

“She would certainly have had no business crossing Moxon Street”, Holmes said. “Her sort would always take a cab. Are you sure that it was her?”

“I can show Mr. More a picture of her to check”, I said. “She is always in the newspapers, worse luck.”

“You mean in the social pages?” he smiled teasingly.

I scowled. A gentleman was entitled to a range of interests, damnation!

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Mr. More confirmed that it was indeed Lady Dawn Butler that he had seen and even better, Holmes was nice enough to buy me a large bar of that new milk chocolate to say sorry for teasing me, which was good of him. Which left two questions; what was one of the snootiest women in London doing up what was pretty much a dead-end, and was it connected in some way to Mr. More's recent attack?

“He was not sure, but our friend thought that the woman may have come out of Garbutt Place rather than along from the park”, I said. “But what can she possibly have been to see there? It is only factories.”

Holmes thought for a while.

“This attack on our friend”, he said. “Did Lady Butler actually cross the road that day?”

“Yes”, I said, “and not long before the attack. About an hour he thought; he was not keeping a close watch on the time.

“There does not seem to be any motive”, he frowned. “Perhaps we need to be a little more creative in teasing one out.”

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A few days later we had a visitor to Cramer Street. A smartly dressed young lady called Miss Henrietta Secombe.

“Miss Secombe is that rare thing, a female journalist”, Holmes explained as we all sat down. “I sent her round to interview Lady Butler to see if we might find a reason for her involvement in the attack on our friend.”

“And did I ever!” the lady said firmly, accepting a cup of tea. “I had thought that my fellow journalists were bad, but after interviewing that woman I had to go home and take a long hot bath! She was terrible!”

“Did you find out anything?” I asked.

“I am afraid that I did”, she said. “Indeed, when she said it to me I had to ask her to repeat it; I was so shocked. And I work with _men!”_

I should perhaps have been insulted, but then nearly all journalists those days _were_ men although regardless of their gender they ranked down alongside politicians, lawyers and sewage workers as things that I supposed we needed in a modern society. For some reason.

“Brace yourselves”, our visitor said. “She did not of course admit to any role in the attack, but when listing people that she thought London would be far better off without, one of the first that she named was your crossing-sweeper - _because he had looked at her in the wrong way!”_

We both stared at her incredulously.

“Precisely how _should_ he have looked at her?” I asked at last.

“I would hazard 'with due reverence and awe while bowing, scraping and tugging his forelock”, she said. “Of course I told her that this was just an article for my college work and that it would likely never be published.”

I smiled at her slight evasion. She would clearly go far in her profession, even if she was looking at someone who was not me with something that was dangerously close to a simper.

“It should be easy to find now we know”, Holmes said, smiling for some reason. “I shall ask around and we shall soon have the three roughs who assaulted our friend. I think that once they realize that the alternative is a long spell inside one of Her Majesty's less pleasant gaols, they will talk.”

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Indeed they did. In fact they sang like the proverbial canaries, and all to the great discomfort of one Lady Butler. In particular it emerged that the reason for her visits to the area were because she had purchased a factory where they were breaking just about every law on worker protection (of which there were few enough anyway) and she was making sure that she got the maximum amount of money out of her investment. That and her admission that she had ruined a man for 'looking at her in the wrong way' was social ruination, and Miss Secombe's article on the whole thing was published in the 'Times' itself. 'Black Dawn' decided that a sudden holiday at her family’s cottage in the south of France might be advisable, and wisely that holiday became a permanent stay. 

Mr. More did not return to his crossing-sweeper job as Holmes's brother Carlyon was actually able to find him a permanent job at his barracks which paid infinitely better than his old job and, dare I say it, with infinitely better people. Indeed the major was also able to find work for both of Mr. More's sons, one there and another at a second barracks in the capital. A happy ending all round, at least for those who deserved it.

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_Notes:_   
_† A disproven but somehow still widely held belief that there is only a fixed amount of wealth in the world. By implication, for a country to become richer some neighbouring country had to become poorer, thus providing another motivation for war. Technological and scientific progress has shown the idea to be bunkum, but in this day and age that is no longer enough to put the idea out of everyone’s misery._

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	10. Case 46: The Adventure Of The Cricklewood Brewery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1881\. Who on earth would want to poison a town through its beer? Holmes investigates and uncovers dark dealings in the brewing industry for two young lady clients who do not simper at him at all (note: definitions of not simpering at all may vary somewhat).

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

I considered myself conservative in many things in life and as I was (too) rapidly approaching the end of my twenties I was already finding myself looking disapprovingly at the young generation, an act usually swiftly followed by the knowledge that someone with blue eyes and impossible hair was likely smirking at me again. Or worse, doing that not-smirk of his that was always followed by a disarming smile when I looked at him suspiciously! Harrumph!

Our latest clients were... different. Two young ladies neither of whom could have been much more than twenty years of age, but their dress sense.... seriously, how had they managed to walk here without being shouted at in the street? Miss Shirley Fenton was fairly reasonably attired in what were most clearly work clothes but Miss Lavinia Faith was actually wearing _trousers!_ And a jumper top with a letter 'L' engraved on it. Honestly, some women these days!

And there was the not-smirk again! I harrumphed to myself and did not pout at all, whatever anyone later said.

“Thank you for seeing us Mr. Holmes”, Miss Fenton began. “We have come to you today about the story in the newspaper.”

“Which story?” Holmes asked, looking more vexed than usual. The grocery delivery the day prior had been short and although he had of course gotten all my bacon as well as his own he was still annoyed. Even the promise of a fry-up for dinner had not improved his mood; there was less bacon in the house than he wished, which was clearly a disaster of the first magnitude.

_I really wished that he would not nod like that!_

“The Cricklewood poisoning”, Miss Faith said, looking at Holmes as if she found it hard to believe that he was really any sort of detective. I could understand that I supposed; he did not look his best after....

Ye Gods, she was simpering at him! I seethed but said nothing, despite yet another provoking not-smirk from someone who I did not like any more.

“We both work at the Six Shots Brewery in the town”, Miss Fenton said, clearly surprised at her friend's sudden and utterly inexplicable attack of doe-eyedness. “It was the only brewery in the area until recently, when a second place opened up on the other side of the town. The Gopher Brewery Company is one of the larger concerns in the industry, and they clearly want to drive us out of business.”

“What sort of taverns do you have in Cricklewood?” Holmes asked. “Free or tied?”

(To my foreign readers I should explain at this point that 'free houses' did not, most unfortunately, serve free beer otherwise.... one can pretty much imagine the consequences if they had! They were 'free' in that they stocked the products of more than one brewery, which in my opinion was all well and good. Tied houses on the other hand only stocked one company's products; one presumes they received some sort of discount for depriving their customers of choice. Also some local beers were an acquired taste; I had had some pints during our travels which had led to me having a notebook labelled 'Beers To Avoid In Future').

“Mostly free”, Miss Fenton said, “but this new company is trying to persuade them to become tied and so to exclude us. And this case of people being ill after drinking our beer – it is all very bad.”

“Such persuasion is unlawful, surely?” I asked.

“Unfortunately not”, Holmes said. “Freedom of choice applies to the tavern owners as well, and they can choose whom they wish to buy from. Although if the incentives offered to them were too great then the courts and perhaps even the newspapers might take a dim view.”

He looked expectantly at Miss Faith, who blushed at being caught mid-simper. Honestly, what was it with the fellow? He looked as usual like he had been caught halfway through getting properly dressed yet women (and vexatious if debatably handsome Cornish fishermen) always looked at him as if he was the last piece of chocolate in the wrapper!

Miss Faith blushed and pulled herself together. There was definitely a simper in there. I only narrowly avoided an eye-roll.

“We were hoping that you might look into this and see if there is anything illegal going on”, she said. “You see, Shirley and I are trying to save up so that we can emigrate to the United States and start a restaurant there; we have cousins over there who would help. But if our brewery is forced to close we shall find it difficult to get the money we need.”

Holmes looked at her shrewdly. Mercifully at least that stopped her simpering. For now at least.

“Ladies working in such a place is in itself unusual”, he observed. 

The look continued. Both women fidgeted. Miss Faith broke first.

“Lady Howson!”

We both looked at her in surprise. Then – and I should have known he would do it – Holmes looked inquiringly at me. I sighed but answered.

“Lady Mary Howson is the wife of the Cabinet member Sir George”, I said, thinking that if he mentioned my very occasional glancing at the social pages on the previous few instances when I had just happened to be passing an open newspaper and if I had time, then I would.... not be happy. “He holds only a junior post but has several friends in the Lords so is quite influential. He is also very unpopular, mainly because he is unpleasant to anyone he considers not useful to his political advancement.”

“You might add that he is a bigoted, racist, preening misogynist pig!” Miss Fenton put in bitterly. “His poor wife cannot stand him, especially the way in which he constantly puts women down. Setting up and running a small brewery which employs only women was her act of telling him where to shove it!”

Holmes frowned.

“This is an added difficulty”, he said. “Unless....”

He trailed off and thought for a few moments, then smiled.

“I will investigate this matter for you both”, he said. “This Sir George sounds a most unpleasant fellow and I think that his wife – and you – deserve that the Six Shots Brewery succeeds. If you leave us a card I will contact you when I have news.”

The ladies looked surprised at their success but duly did so and departed, although not without another longing simper from Miss Faith that earned her an eye-roll from her friend. Why did none of them ever simper at _me?_ What was I, chopped liver?

And there was another not-smirk in the vicinity. Harrumph!

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Holmes summonsed a boy and dispatched a telegram, presumably with regards to the ladies' case, then asked if I would like to take a walk.

“All right”, I said. “Where to?”

“I wish to send a telegram.”

I looked at him in confusion.

“But you just did”, I objected. He smiled knowingly.

“This matter involves a government minister”, he said.

“So?” I was confused (yes, no change there then).

“So”, he said, “the assistant behind the counter at the post-office across the road is being paid by my brother Randall to inform him every time I send off something interesting.”

I stared at him in shock.

“He is spying on you?” I exclaimed.

“Indeed”, Holmes said. “I would quite like not to be here when he arrives in a total panic about half an hour from now, which he will given the distances involved. A nice walk around the Outer Circle of the Park should give him plenty of time to sit here and fret.”

“But why would he do that?” I asked.

“Because the message I sent from the local post-office concerned a potential love child of Mr. Gladstone, our esteemed prime minister!” he grinned. “Coming?”

I _knew_ that there was a reason I kept him around.

“Indeed!” he muttered as I got my things.

The mind-reading thing apart, that was!

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We had a most enjoyable walk, even more so in the knowledge that a certain lounge-lizard of a brother would be champing at the bit when we eventually made it back. There may have been one or two (maybe even eight) arguably unnecessary detours into shops, but I myself thought that three hours for a stroll was quite acceptable. Especially when we arrived back to see a carriage waiting for us.

Holmes checked his watch before entering and I asked why.

“Mother is keeping an eye on Randall after some of his antics as of late”, he said. “When she finds that he has been spying on me, she will _not_ be pleased.”

“You would tell on him?” I asked in mock horror.

“Like a shot!” he grinned. “Mother has nearly finished 'Northanger Abbey' - that ghastly saga of how one medieval abbot tried to prevent the dissolution of his abbey by dosing the king's men sent to dispossess him with a herbal sex-potion - and I am sure that Randall would just _love_ to edit it!”

Even from that description I knew that I would not have _loved_ to have edited it. It was damnably unfair of him to have even told me about it. I had to sleep at night!

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We duly mounted to our rooms to find them occupied by someone whose face just begged to be used as target practice. Mr. Randall Holmes, government functionary and unwelcome irritating annoyance, not in that order.

“What is this nonsense about you undertaking an investigation into our esteemed prime minister, Sher?” he demanded before we were even sat down.

Holmes stared coolly at him. I ratcheted up my hopes for sibling violence; I knew that my friend hated that name. Our visitor scowled but gave in.

“Sherlock”, he amended grumpily.

The stare continued. Our unwelcome visitor ground his teeth in frustration.

 _Please?”_ he said with absolutely no sincerity whatsoever.

“You will have to work on your manners, Randall”, Holmes said dryly. “For some years, by the look of things. What investigation are you talking about, pray?”

“I have heard that you are looking at the Grand Old Man himself”, our visitor said haughtily.

“Or as Disraeli likes to call him, God's Only Mistake!” I muttered. 

That earned me a sharp glare. Holmes sighed.

“I have it on good authority that one of the most senior Cabinet members has a love-child that they have actually acknowledged but have paid to keep secret”, he said. “Naturally I wish to investigate further to make sure. Besides Randall, you know what politics is like these days. If I dig further, who knows what else I might find?”

Our visitor visibly shuddered.

“Who is it, if it is not Gladstone?” he demanded.

“All I can tell you is that he is one of the most senior members”, I said. “I suppose that I could tell you more – but that tiresome tendency of yours when it comes to deliberately using a name that you know I do not like – no, you can remain in ignorance until I am ready. You can spend the time acquiring those extra manners; Lord knows that you need them.”

He scowled at us both but clearly knew that he was going to get nowhere and swept from the room. I opened the window to get rid of his terrible _eau de cologne_ in which he had taken presumably a bath in that morning. Most probably at us taxpayers' expense.

“Which Cabinet member was it?” I asked.

“Sir George Howson if my back-up check comes through”, Holmes grinned. “Even if not, Randall can spend a fruitless few days panicking while we sort out this Cricklewood case.”

He really was terrible! I liked him.

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A few days passed and Holmes only received about twenty frantic telegrams from a certain brother. I am not sure of the exact amount although I do know how many he answered. Nil. He did however send off three inquiries about various senior government ministers from the post-office in the knowledge that his brother would find out about them.

He was so bad!

Monday came around again and we had a visitor to Cramer Street. Sir George Howson.

“Fellows at the club said you could sort this sort of thing out”, he said bluntly. “I need a woman silenced.”

I noted that he had not even asked Holmes for help, assuming that he would get it as of right. The English nobility were a good crowd overall, as I knew from my very occasional glancing at the social pages of the 'Times', but there were some bad apples in the barrel. Holmes smiled languidly.

“I am a consulting detective”, he pointed out, “not a hired assassin, Sir George. What pray has this woman done to upset you so?”

“She claims that her young boy is mine, and that she has proof”, he said.

 _Is_ the child yours, may I ask?” Holmes said.

Our visitor spluttered at that. I could guess the answer before he came out with it.

“I paid her to keep silent”, he grumbled, “but now she is threatening to go public and ruin me!”

“Oh dear”, Holmes sighed. “That _is_ bad!”

“What do you mean?” our unpleasant visitor asked.

“If you actually paid her then I am sure she has kept receipts of all the transactions”, Holmes said. “She can easily go to the bank and demand to know the person behind the account.”

“They would never tell her that!” he snapped.

“They might”, Holmes said, “especially given the horrible publicity that could otherwise ensue. A bank that was seen as defending someone merely because they had misused a lady of a lower class.... it would not look good. The Thunderer would be Most Displeased and the bank would likely lose many customers until it came to heel.”

Our visitor looked at Holmes curiously.

“How did you know Fenella is lower-class?” he asked.

“I rather assumed that it was your former secretary to whom you are referring”, Holmes said. “The one who had to leave unexpectedly a couple of years back. Or so your wife said.”

For all his ruddy complexion Sir George Howson turned white incredibly quickly.

“You spoke to the _wife?”_ he said tremulously.

“I was making inquiries into a quite separate matter”, Holmes said, “concerning two ladies who feared they might be about to lose their employment. You can imagine my surprise when I found out that the person behind their employer's sudden difficulties was none other than _you_ , sir.”

Our visitor stared at him in shock.

“Minutes from the meeting of the G.V.B. Brewery Corporation showed that they had had no interest in expanding into the town of Cricklewood until _you_ purchased a block of shares in the company”, Holmes said. “That seemed more than coincidental so I dug further. Shortly before you made that purchase you had employed a private investigator to dig into your wife's affairs, presumably seeking for evidence that would raise the possibility of a divorce. You found that she was behind the Six Shots Brewery Company in that Middlesex town so you set out to ruin it and, hopefully, her. Much as it is against their beliefs to discuss a client's details, your investigator was so shocked at your subsequent antics that he waived that rule and told me about you.”

“Wait a damn minute....”

“Then there are the three people who were allegedly poisoned after drinking six Shots beer”, Holmes continued. “Two of them claimed that they were still unwell - except that when it was made clear to them that they would have to face a thorough examination by an independent doctor, they duly imitated the good Lazarus and recovered with _amazing_ speed. Truly, 'twas a miracle! You have also been behind several financial inducements to persuade taverns in the town to become tied houses and to stop selling Six Shots beer. That in itself is not strictly illegal but I do not think even the mighty Thunderer will be considering legal niceties when they fall on this story.”

Sir George somehow contrived to turn even paler.

“You would not tell them!” he said, his voice quavering now. “That would ruin me!”

“Then I suggest you refrain from looking at any evening papers when they come out today”, I said. “You might also like to think twice about going home. A full letter detailing all your foul actions was delivered by registered post to your wife” - he looked pointedly at his watch - “about ten minutes ago. By now she should have finished reading it and is no doubt considering what to do next. I have advised that she see her lawyer, but she may have decided to opt for something sharp and more to the point first. We are talking scissors and your expensive wardrobe contents, I would hazard.”

The minister opened his mouth but nothing came out. He knew that he had been defeated. He stood slowly to his feet, gave us each one last hateful glare and slouched from the room.

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Miss Faith and Miss Fenton were understandably delighted at the way that things had turned out, and some years later they did decamp to the United States where they opened their restaurant and made a great success of it. Lady Howson's brewery went from strength to strength especially after she took her husband to the cleaners' over her divorce. He was compelled to resign from the government in disgrace and tried to flee the country to avoid his creditors, only to be brought back and jailed until his ruined financial affairs were sorted out. I doubt that anyone shed a tear for him.

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	11. Case 47: The Adventure Of The Scarred Scion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. A gentleman from a rich and famous American family seems strangely out of place in a remote Welsh valley, in this (literally) hair-raising case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of Vanderbilt and the Yeggman.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

The reason that this rather quirky little adventure was not published in the original Sherlock canon was one of the most common such behind so many 'missing cases', namely that the innocent gentleman involved had every right to live out their lives in privacy, something that Holmes helped him to achieve. Now that he has passed on to a better place his story can finally be told – and it proves that money truly cannot always buy happiness. 

Although in my experience it can at least buy a remission from the attentions of one's bank manager. For that is where my story begins, where I once again demonstrated the detective abilities of the average cashew nut.

I can _hear_ someone nodding in the next room, damn him!

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In our later years together one of the things that I knew upset my friend was my low but accurate opinion of my own skills in many areas, particularly those of detective work. Then again I did miss something so obvious at this time that looking back even I should have felt a frisson of shame for not spotting what our friend LeStrade called 'the bleedin' obvious'. And like our other friend Gregson he was a very good detective (indeed, both were when it came to detecting cakes all the way from their respective police-stations!).

My work at the surgery was at most times enough for me to more or less meet my outgoings but over the past few months that work had dried up somewhat. The opening of a rival surgery rather too near my own had meant that the number of patients I was taking as well as my few fixed days there had decreased, taking my income down with it. I had increasingly fretted over my bank statements – until out of the blue salvation arrived in the form of one Mr. Meyrick Carney, an elderly clerk who had been fired from his position at the bank where my account was held. What made this so fortuitous for me was that he had managed all the 'professional' accounts in the city and the bank knew that he had defrauded several of his clients but not which ones. Their most apologetic letter stated that rather than face some horrendous and drawn-out bad publicity at the hands of the London press they were therefore depositing a sum of twenty pounds sterling† into each of the renegade clerk's accounts, mine included, and would later increase this for anyone worse affected once they had finished their full investigation. Undoubtedly the best part from my personal point of view was that even for those who might turn out to be unaffected (and I doubted that my own situation could have been much worse) they would get to keep the twenty pounds. It was quite literally a godsend!

Before anyone says it, yes, I was that gullible in those far-off days. Gullible, and blessed with the best friend in the whole wide world!

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One of the criticisms sometimes levied at Holmes was that he was disinclined to go beyond the front door unless necessary, let alone leave his beloved London. This was palpably unfair; his brilliant brain was more than capable of solving crimes without rushing hither and yon. Indeed it seemed an unwelcome facet of modern policing that as the Spencer John case and its aftermath had shown, they appeared to think being seen to do things was more important than actually _doing_ things. Holmes believed in making the best use of the gifts given him by the Good Lord which meant the efficient use of his talents, not wasting time running about to no good end.

Which is why I was caught off-guard by his question at the breakfast table that January morning.

“How do you feel about Montgomeryshire?”

I looked at him in surprise.

“It is one of the Marcher counties”, I answered. “Towards the north, opposite Shropshire. I have never been there but I have read that the countryside is very beautiful; Peter had a holiday in Radnorshire south of there last year and he liked it a lot. It was very pastoral, he said, and Anne loved it.”

“Father writes that a friend of his is encountering problems there”, he said, “which he thinks that we may be able to help with.”

It was probably foolish of me to again feel a warm glow at a silly pronoun plural form, but I did so anyway.

“What sort of problems?” I asked.

“He does not say”, Holmes said, frowning at the letter as if it had displeased him. “But the name of the fellow is certainly one of note. The gentleman requiring our assistance is one Mr. Enoch Vanderbilt.”

“Like the American millionaires?” I asked, surprised. Although I supposed that on reflection I might have expected someone like Holmes's father to have known that illustrious family.

“A cousin who has someone found his way to the far end of a remote Welsh valley”, Homes said thoughtfully. “An odd place for someone with wealthy connections. Having said that, the money may not reach as far as his branch of the family tree. I wonder if the root of all evil might be a reason for his calling us in?”

“Actually the Bible says that the love of money is the root of all evil, not money itself”, I said not at all sententiously.

“Thank you, Brother Watson!”

I scowled at that but he was already busy devouring his (yes, and half of my) bacon. I sighed. Some things did not change.

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Reaching somewhere as remote as the small village of Llangynog was no easy task even if this was the Age of Railways. We took an early morning London and North Western Railway train as far as Crewe Junction where we changed to the Cambrian Railways (I believe that the extra 's' was because it had been formed by a merger of several smaller companies in that long mountain range) and a train that looked rather rickety but succeeded in getting us as far as our final stop, the station in the small village of Llynclys‡. From here we still faced a fifteen-mile journey to our destination at the far end of the Tanat Valley. It was a beautiful area, the journey's sole interruption being when a lady driving some sheep along our road with two sheepdogs seemed to have something wrong with her eyes from the way she leered at my friend.

His not-smirk was just as annoying on the other side of Offa's famous dyke!

I wondered how Holmes felt about being absent from the city that was his home, and wished that we could have had longer out here. It was a Saturday and I had my fixed surgery day on Wednesday this week which meant that I would have to head home on Tuesday whether the case – if there was one – was resolved or not. The thought depressed me.

We finally made it to Llangynog which turned out to be a most charming village. St. Cynog's church sitting snug behind its protective wall had one of those squat little bell-towers that I quite liked architecturally. The people that we passed seemed friendly enough; I had read in the 'Times' that some in northern parts of Wales in particular had the same sort of dislike towards outsiders that the more backward parts of Scotland and Ireland exhibited, but there was none of that here.

Or so I first thought.

I did not know what I had been expecting for the house of the cousin of such a famous family as the Vanderbilts but Basilica House, set in its own little nook a little way west of the village, was definitely not it. It was a fair-sized cottage but it was barely any larger than our house back in Cramer Street. A Vanderbilt lived _here?_

A dour-looking butler opened the door to us and gave us the sort of look that I had fast become used to (more than one lady had tried to offer me money 'for helping the indigent poor' so bedraggled did Holmes sometimes look when we were out together). The fellow bade us enter and installed us in what must have been one of the smallest waiting-rooms ever; our knees actually touched as we sat opposite each other. Fortunately there was only a short wait before we were summoned to the presence of Mr. Enoch Vanderbilt.

Events that later unfolded require me to remark upon the most obvious thing about our forty-one year-old client, namely the huge birthmark that covered most of his face. Society had progressed some way towards accepting such things by this time but I began to have my first inklings as to why someone with his famous connections had chosen to live in such a remote area. He bade us welcome and waited until the butler had brought us drinks – coffee for Holmes mercifully – and departed.

“Thank you for coming”, he said and I detected a faint American accent along with the Welsh one. “I believe, Mr. Holmes, that from what I read about your adventure in Oxford you require all the facts, much as your doctor and scribe here does when diagnosing a patient. I have much to tell you.”

“Please proceed”, Holmes said politely looking a little mournfully at the now-empty coffee-cup. Our host smiled and within minutes a second cup had arrived. I suppressed a smile at the happy noise that came from my doubly-caffeinated friend and almost inevitably received a sharp look as a result. That had not changed this side of the Dyke, either!

“To begin with”, our host said, “I will answer your obvious question as to why I live out here, far from so-called 'civilization' and many thousands of miles from my relations. I am sure you know that the family fortune was founded by the late Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt who died some four years ago. My father Jacob was his first cousin and they were initially quite close. Unfortunately there was a falling-out when my father married my mother who was what they call 'a half-caste' from Portmadoc, which is in on the Carnarvonshire coast. I am sure that William – the current head of the family – would have preferred a complete break but Cornelius, for all that he disapproved of the match, was unmovable when it came to familial obligations.”

“Matters were further complicated when my mother became pregnant and then died giving birth to me. As you can see I bear the severe facial disfigurement which, as I am sure you will understand, made it desirous that I not be seen out in what is laughably called 'polite society'. I suppose that in one way it made the break easier; Cornelius was prepared to pay Father to go a long way away so that he did not 'disgrace' the family name.”

I frowned. People could not help the way they looked. And yes, it took a lot of effort not to glance at the less than immaculate personage next to me!

“Did you choose Wales because of your late mother?” Holmes ventured eyeing me warily for some reason. Our host nodded.

“My father was heartbroken after my mother's death”, he said. “He wanted to leave the United States but had no idea where to go. My mother's sister, my late Aunt Mary, had married a Welshman from Pennant not far from here. Her daughter my cousin Branwen still lives there; she had lost her own husband in a fishing disaster and invited my father to come to the area. He settled in this place and died last year.”

“So why have you summoned us?” I asked. Our host's face darkened.

“You probably saw on your approach how the road leading here makes a sharp right turn”, he said. “Although this place may look small, I own all the land around that corner. The county council wishes to build a small housing estate to the left as you approach thus turning the corner into a T-junction. I have said that I am accepting of this as I will retain the small copse that you saw between me and where the new houses will start; I also insisted that at least half the new houses will be offered first to valley folk and at a fair price. I naturally had that drawn up as a legal argument; I have learned that people in general and officials in particular cannot always be trusted, whichever side of the wide blue waters they are on.”

He took a sip from his tea.

“As is the way these days the council invited local building companies to tender for the new estate”, he continued. “Two companies made bids in the end; Durham Builders in the village against Davis & Davis up in Llanrhaiadr. I could have sold the land to either of them – until the troubles began.”

“What troubles?” Holmes asked. 

“Girls in the village started to get attacked”, our host said, frowning. “Very oddly the attacks happen only on Tuesdays. In each case a girl has reported that someone – someone wearing a face-mask by an amazing coincidence – attacked the girl in question and only ran off when she screamed.”

“An attacker who is deterred by a woman's scream”, Holmes said dubiously. “Unusual if not downright unbelievable.”

He thought for a moment.

“There is someone else in all this”, he said. “Who is it?”

“The doctor undersells your powers, sir”, our host smiled. “Durham Builders is owned by a Mr. Ivor Durham and he has but one child Eleanor, who is heiress to the company. She has been quite vocal in her dislike of my presence here. It was shortly after the bids were submitted that the attacks started.”

“But surely you could just sell to the other company?” I asked. Mr. Vanderbilt shook his head.

“That is what makes me suspicious about Miss Durham”, he explained. “The Llanrhaiadr firm is run by Mr. Elijah Davis and he is what they call 'very High Church'. I know that he has considered withdrawing his offer although his good lady wife – she is a lady who could have put the fear of God into King Offa himself! - insists that he must not unless I actually get convicted of these attacks. But given the facts as they are, that is a distinct possibility.”

“Which would lead to his withdrawal”, Holmes said, pressing his long fingers together, “which in turn would then allow Miss Durham's firm to be the sole purchaser and presumably offer a lower price against the threat of their withdrawing as well.”

“Can you help me at all?” our host asked urgently.

“The facts of the matter are clear enough”, Holmes said to the surprise of us both. “But proving it may be another thing entirely. I shall have to wire a friend in London for some help in this matter.”

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The front of the cottage most fortunately belied its inner spacious interior. There were fair-sized rooms for Holmes and myself and I decided that I would miss the place when I had to go back – at least until the telegram arrived. I read it in surprise.

“Problems?”

One of these days Holmes was going to give me a heart-attack coming up behind me like that. I managed to restrict myself to a mild and not at all high-pitched expression of surprise, then turned and scowled at him. He was definitely not-smirking again!

“A message from my friend Peter”, I said turning back to my telegram. “He says that I am covered for as long as I need to stay away from London.”

“That is good then.”

His voice was too flat. I stared at him suspiciously and he smiled shyly.

“I may have made clear to my father that I bitterly resented his inferences about your character”, he said quietly. “Also that arranging extra cover for you while you were helping me on this case would go a very small way to making up for that.”

I felt absurdly pleased.

“Thank you”, I smiled. “I am really enjoying it out here. It is so peaceful.”

I was to remember those fateful words. All too soon.

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The following day Holmes received a package from London. Annoyingly he would not tell me what was in it and proposed a walk down through the village presumably in the hope that it would distract me. I would like to say that I was not so easily distracted, but it would have been a lie.

Llangynog was a small village and possessed of but a single tavern. I had been in there the day before and had quickly learned that the locals had the sort of nosiness of which our friend LeStrade would have approved, although being a committed Anglophile I could not see him ever leaving the capital unless he had to. When I had said that my friend and I were just visiting the area to take some air I was greeted with barely concealed incredulity. One of them had however read my 'Gloria Scott' story and said that he had liked it, so at least he showed good taste.

We discovered one small thing that Mr. Vanderbilt had not told us, namely that Miss Durham was currently seeing a local fellow, a Mr. Ian McEwan whose sister was one of the girls who had been attacked. Holmes of course won the local people over in no time and he soon singled out Mr. McEwan, a sharp-faced young man to whom I took an instant dislike. I considered that he might do well to marry Miss Durham who had made a similarly poor impression on me. I know that one cannot expect high fashion from country ladies but she seemed to be trying for what might be termed 'the manly look' and it ill-suited her, let alone the fact that the Good Lord had neglected to install a volume button somewhere as her voice was loud in the extreme. I would have tried pouring my beer over her, but it was a quite pleasant brew so I generously refrained.

All right, she was not the only one there to simper at a certain visitor from England who was not me. Damnation!

Holmes spent some time talking to young Mr. McEwan (it depressed me that teetering as I was at the less desirable end of my third decade I considered such a person 'young') before rejoining me at the bar. My friend then spent some time holding forth on a study he had done into different types of werewolves and ancient spirits which I thought an odd choice of conversation. But then he was an odd duck at times even if he was a genius. And he had bought me some time in this most pleasant locale (and a large bag of chocolate drops from the sweet-shop for later some of which I still had, impressively), so I felt warm towards him.

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On Tuesday I woke early to hear a noise outside. Looking out I saw Mr. Vanderbilt riding away from the house and I thought it odd that he was headed west rather than east. I knew that that road led into the mountains and then on to Merionethshire and Carnarvonshire. Perhaps he was going to see his sister up in Pennant, but at the ungodly hour of a quarter past six in the morning? 

The morning passed uneventfully; we did not go out as it was one of those on-off drizzly days. The afternoon was a little better but still cold and I preferred to stay in and read. Holmes said that the servants would not be coming in for some reason although they had prepared various cold foods for us. I thought nothing of that either and hoped fervently hoping that there would be no attack that evening.

I was about to suggest that we turn in for the night when Holmes surprised me by saying that he wanted to take a walk into the village. It was drizzling again if intermittently and I really did not want to go, but I sensed that there was more to his request that a desire to experience Welsh as opposed to English rain so I pulled on my coat and followed him. 

I had assumed that we were making for the tavern and a late night drink, but we did not make it. A dark figure loomed up ahead of us as we passed the church, the rain dripping off his uniform.

“Ah, Constable Jones”, Holmes smiled pleasantly as if he had been expecting a policeman to pop up out of the dark (he probably had been). “May I suggest that we adjourn to your station as it is much nearer than the cottage?”

The policeman looked at us uncertainly but Holmes's persuasive abilities like his patented not-smirk also functioned across Offa's Dyke. 

“As you wish sir”, he said. “I was coming to see your Mr. Vanderbilt.”

Holmes said nothing until we were inside the police-station which was indeed just a few houses down. Once he had removed his coat and sat down my friend smiled at the policeman.

“Who has been attacked?” he asked bluntly. “Was it Miss Durham by any chance?”

The policeman was at once visibly suspicious.

“How might you be knowing that, sir?” he asked warily. “I have only just come from the lady in question.”

“Because I rather expected her to be attacked this rainy evening”, Holmes smiled. “Indeed one might almost imply that I encouraged it.”

The policeman stared at him, clearly astonished. Holmes sat back and relaxed.

“I had a feeling that someone might try to frame poor Mr. Vanderbilt for an attack today”, he said. “In the tavern yesterday I made a point of telling several people that our host was planning to sell up and move to the North, and that the whole thing would most likely be accomplished in little more than a fortnight or possibly even a week. Also that he had a potential buyer for his cottage, a factory owner from St. Helens who wished to use it as a retirement home and he would be selling him the adjoining land as well so the new estate would be his concern.”

The policeman looked perplexed.

“Why would you have done all that, sir?” he asked.

“I wished to force the hand of the real person behind the attacks”, Holmes said. “If they believed that the fellow they were attempting to ruin might evade them, then they would have to strike on what might be the only Tuesday left, namely tonight.”

“Miss Durham has indeed been attacked, sir”, the constable admitted. “In the woods not far from Mr. Vanderbilt's cottage. I shall still have to interview him.”

“It will be a short interview, constable”, Holmes said with a smile. “This morning Mr. Vanderbilt rode to Bala – he took the precaution of going that way so as not to be observed - and caught a train for London. He is seeing a doctor friend of mine and will be spending tonight and tomorrow night at a hotel there.” 

He handed the policeman a folded piece of paper. 

“This is the name of his hotel; you are perfectly at liberty to wire them and to ask if what I have said is true.”

The constable stared at the piece of paper. He must have known that Holmes would not have ventured such a thing if he could not have backed it up. 

“It seems that he is in the clear, sir”, he said. “But Miss Durham says that she was attacked.”

Holmes smiled knowingly.

“I am not a betting man, constable”, he said slowly. “But I would wager a small sum on the following. Once you have told her that Mr. Vanderbilt could not possibly have been her attacker, Miss Durham will decide that she does not wish for the case to be pursued.”

“Sir?”

“You might however do me one small favour, if I might be so bold?”

“Well...”

“If you happen to encounter a 'hairy' gentleman in your travels later tonight, kindly direct him to the cottage!”

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“Will I need my gun?” I asked anxiously once we were back at the cottage. He shook his head. 

“In this case you would more likely need a razor!” he said mysteriously. 

I shook my head in confusion.

Fortunately I did not have long to be annoyed with him, for barely ten minutes after our return there was a loud knocking at the cottage door. Holmes pressed his finger to his lips then went to open it.

It was Mr. Ian McEwan. And his face and hands were both _covered_ in hair!

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“You have to help me, doctor!” our visitor pleaded, staggering into the cottage. “I have....”

“Be silent!” Holmes snapped. 

The man shook but obeyed.

“You are here tonight because you did something both deceitful and dishonest”, Holmes said coldly. “Doctor Watson may officially be a doctor of medicine but he and I share a common interest in, shall we say, some of the more dubious aspects of religion.”

_Did we?_

“Sirs?”

“If you keep interrupting I shall not be able to tell you how to get rid of the curse”, Holmes said angrily. “You will stay like this for the rest of your life!”

The man all but collapsed into a chair by the table, whining piteously. I made some fake notes and kept silent.

“Now”, Holmes said, “I am going to share something with you. In tangling with Mr. Vanderbilt – that is not his real name of course – you chose the wrong target. Had you applied at least a modicum of common sense you would have asked yourself what someone with such an illustrious name was doing up the far end of a Welsh Valley, thousands of miles from that family's wealth. Unfortunately for you, you have no sense.”

“Sir!”

“Some time ago Mr. Vanderbilt – I shall not say his real name for fear of invoking the same sort of 'trouble' that you have very evidently brought upon yourself - dabbled in certain supernatural matters that he would have done well to have steered clear of”, Holmes said. “I am sure you are aware that the great continent of North America is even now still being opened up and all sorts of strange heathen beliefs are being encountered by modern 'civilization'. Most of them are pure mumbo-jumbo but occasionally there are certain heathen deities that still retain some of their terrifying old powers. Mr. Vanderbilt very foolishly chose to try to communicate with one of them for his own gain. His face and the fact that he subsequently had to leave the country of his birth tells you all too clearly the terrible result of his foolish actions.”

“But I am all....”

“I will turn you out in the rain if you keep interrupting!” Holmes said exasperatedly. 

Our visitor quailed and managed to pull in on himself even more. Holmes coughed before continuing.

“Unfortunately this particular spirit is easy to summon but almost impossible to get rid of”, he said. “Their word for it in the Native Tongue of the Red Indian tribe that lives in the region is, as far as I can pronounce it, 'Yeggman'. It sounds harmless and, if left alone, usually is. However like all gods it has a key interest – and unfortunately for you, that interest is in bringing down justice on those who bear false witness.”

“No!”

“You and Miss Durham planned this whole ramp”, Holmes said crossly. “She knew that if Mr. Vanderbilt was linked to the attacks then the rival company up in Llanrhaiadr might not deal with him and she could offer a much lower price for the land. Fearing from what I said the other night that that he was going to sell to someone else and move away, you had to strike at once which was why you chose Miss Durham as the so-called victim.”

“We did not!”

“I am sure that the other 'victims' – including your own sister - were paid most handsomely for their roles in this ramp”, Holmes glowered. “Even more unfortunately for you, you chose to do the attacks on Tuesdays when the power of the Yeggman is at its greatest. Tell me Mr, McEwan, how old are you?”

“Sir?”

Holmes tutted at him.

“I do not ask these questions for my health”, he snapped. “Indeed, I ask them for your own. Kindly answer!”

“Twenty-four, sir”, the man managed.

“That then is your sole piece of good fortune”, Holmes said. “For all that there is no _medical_ cure for what has befallen you, there is a _spiritual_ one provided you are not yet twenty-seven – that is, three times three times three - years of age. You must go to Constable Jones and confess all, then beg him to allow you to spend the night praying in the church. If you can stay awake in the House of God from Tuesday through the following Wednesday sunrise then the curse will be lifted, although its effects will take some days to leave you. Talking of leaving, may I suggest that you do just that?”

The man actually fought with the door to get through it, scrambling out into the rain. And he was gone.

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_“The Yeggman?”_ I chuckled. “Really?”

“Gregson told me that once”, he said. “It is used by some members of the criminal classes for a safe-breaker.”

I shook my head at him.

“How did Mr. McEwan end up in that state?” I asked.

“Remember that he and I drank together that evening at the pub?” Holmes asked. “The package that I had sent from London was from Doctor Adams, whom we helped out on the Manor House Case. He sent me a solution which, twenty-four hours after imbibing, causes the body to break out in hair. All I had to do was slip it into Mr. McEwan's drink.”

“So he does not have to spend all night praying, then?” I asked.

“Good for the soul”, Holmes said shortly. “It also means that everyone in the village will get to see his new look; it will take days to wear off. In the meantime our train back is not until next Sunday so I suggest that we retire and then spend the next few days enjoying the mountains of Montgomeryshire.”

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Enjoy them we did as the weather was mercifully kind to us. Mr. Vanderbilt returned and was immensely grateful to Holmes for having cleared his name. We spent several happy days in Llangynog and I was sorry to leave it for the grime and bustle of the city. 

Although his birthmark could not be completely removed, Holmes's doctor friend was able to treat Mr. Vanderbilt and reduce his birthmark in both its size and severity. I later learned that old Mr. Durham, having been shocked by his daughter's complicity in the matter, had seemingly done nothing – until he died some years later and she found to her horror that he had written her out of his will completely and left his company and entire estate to a distant cousin! I believe that she decided to emigrate to India to whom I suppose we owe a small apology. Mr. McEwan quitted the valley for Cardiff where he sank into a life of crime and, the following year, was found floating face down in the River Taff. In neither case could Montgomeryshire have considered their departures to have been a loss.

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_Notes:_   
_† About £2,000 ($2,500) at 2020 prices._   
_‡ Llynclys Station is one of two sites owned by the heritage Cambrian Railways of today (2020), the other being Oswestry. It is hoped to link them up soon and have a railway running for some miles from Gobowen and the rail network through both sites as far as Blodwell Junction. Llangynog and the Tanat Valley were subsequently connected to the railway system but the line was not a success and closed after just half a century, although a small preservation society is striving to preserve a part of it too._

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	12. Interlude: A Good Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1881\. A certain consulting detective undertakes a long journey up de Nile.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I had enjoyed our little case with Mr. Vanderbilt away in rural Montgomeryshire, and especially Watson's happiness at being away from all his cares and woes if only for a short time. I was still angry at my family for thinking that we had.... well, that we had. Also that small annoying voice at the back of my mind that kept reminding me of my own feelings on the matter was so not appreciated. I could not afford to have _those_ sort of feelings, for my sake almost as much Watson's.

I had thought to get back into the swing of things once we were safely back in the capital, but after a quiet Christmas and New Year any hopes for that were scuppered when I caught the dreaded winter flu. I would doubtless have made matters worse had not Watson gone into complete mother-hen mode and given me his full attention. He even called in between patients on his rounds just to check up on me and although I was perhaps not always the best of patients.

Luke and Campbell both fell about laughing when I said that to them, the bastards! My mother even offered to come round and read one of her stories to me and I so owed Watson for managing to dissuade her by saying that I was highly infectious. I kept quietly to my bed and followed my doctor's orders, so docilely that I think I even surprised him. 

I still had cases at this time of course but Watson persuaded me to not go out in the pursuit of any and ran several errands for me until I was well again. I could see how this was taking a toll of him personally but it was wonderful that he cared for me in that way. I did not deserve such a friend but I would try to become a better man for him. Indeed I had noted how his painfully thin coat was nothing like warm enough for a London winter and had purchased him an insanely warmer woollen one. Because he was a friend. That was what he was. Definitely a friend.

I was so far up that river in north-east Africa that it was not even funny any more.

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	13. Case 48: Murder At The Crossroads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. A crossroads deal ends in death and the killer seems obvious – until it emerges that he could not have done it. Meanwhile Holmes proves once more to have a big heart when it comes to the little things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentioned also as the case of Morgan, the poisoner.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

It would have been opportunistic of me to have used my friend's investigations away from London to explore England and take in all its many delights. But when he told me that he had a case that would necessitate our travelling to the north Somersetshire village of Winscombe I thought immediately of the magnificent cathedral at Wells, a town which served by trains on the same line which would take us there. However I said nothing even as we swept through the cold and silent wintry countryside. I did not wish to once more take advantage of my friend's good nature. 

One of the perks of being the great detective's whetstone in his cases was most definitely the first-class travel that he insisted on. I would have thought twice about paying extra for the relative luxury (or as regards _some_ railway companies that I could mention, especially those of a Kentish persuasion, the marginally reduced level of discomfort!) that even second-class afforded, and would only have done so because that was what was socially expected of me. The luxury of well-padded seats (and at this time of year, the blessed heating!) was wonderful!

“What precisely is this case about?” I asked as we bowled along at a fair pace. We were indeed going via Witham (it was slightly faster than going round via Bristol) but I doubted that we would be stopping at the famous cathedral city, worse luck.

“A lady called Mrs. Black has written me a most curious letter”, Holmes said, “which has quite piqued my interest. She is the wife of the local vicar and is concerned about a recent death in the village. Possibly a murder.”

I stared at him in surprise.

“Surely then she should have alerted the local constabulary?” I asked.

“That is one of the things that has piqued my interest”, he said. “She would tell me no facts of the case save to say that she would rather approach me than them for reasons that could not be communicated through the general post. Bearing in mind the single-mindedness with which the post-office guards letters while in its possession, I find that more than a little interesting.”

I could not but agree. Recently I had had to claim a letter of my own which had not been delivered because the sender had written the details a tad untidily, and the local post-office staff had made me feel almost like a criminal when I had gone to collect it. Even though it had been my name _and_ my address on the damn letter!

“Our destination is the Crossroads Inn, a tavern halfway between Winscombe and the neighbouring village of Banwell”, Holmes said. “I note from the maps that the rugby club which is shared between the two villages lies directly opposite the inn so that may have something to do with matters. Our client also recommended that we purchase a local newspaper so we shall have to get one from somewhere. I think that our change station at Witham is too far away; perhaps we could get one at Wells if there is a vendor on the station platform there?”

Great, I groused to myself. I get to see my tourist trap for as long as it takes to buy a newspaper. I might if I were really lucky get a quick glimpse of the cathedral over the station fencing. Oh well, one does not get a coconut every time, as the saying goes.

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I was also somewhat depressed because our journey took place on January the eleventh which meant that the next day would be my birthday. To be precise my..... the one after my twe.... all right, my thirtieth birthday! I would be thirty which was rather too close to being.... middle-aged. Ugh!

I managed to obtain two local newspapers from the vendor at Priory Road Station where to my _chagrin_ we waited some time before continuing up the valley. Life was unfair at times.

“I might suppose that the case we have been called on to investigate is the mysterious death of Mr. Japheth Arbuthnott”, Holmes observed after a while. “It is the only matter of import that relates to our destination and took place some two days ago. The local constabulary are, and I quote, ‘baffled’.”

“My newspaper is a little more informative”, I said. “The victim was sixty-seven, a businessman who was looking to settle in the area as he had several interests in nearby Weston-super-Mare. He was poisoned at....”

I looked up at Holmes in surprise.

“His home Crossroads Court, just along from the Crossroads Inn outside Winscombe”, I finished. Holmes smiled.

“Which is where the estimable Mrs. Black has arranged accommodation for us”, he said with a smile. “Well, things begin to fall into place. Some good Somersetshire air and a sharp case will be most beneficial.”

I was pleased to see him looking so eager. He had suffered a bad cold after our return from Montgomeryshire, one that had teetered horribly on the brink of developing into something nastier, and my ‘mother-hen tendencies’ had taken over and likely driven him around the bend although he had forborne it without complaining. At least I had managed to dissuade his mother from coming round and reading to him (his look of horror at such a prospect had been one to behold!), although most unfairly she had insisted on giving _me_ the details of her latest crime against literature. It had been called 'Panorama' and despite her brief description I never wanted to see another yo-yo as long as he lived.

It was because I valued him as a friend, and because he was after all a sick man, that I kept those details from him.

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Mrs. Katherine Black was waiting to meet us off the train at Winscombe and to take us to the Vicarage for tea and a briefing on the case, after which a cab would take us to the Crossroads Inn. She was a short fussy lady with horn-rimmed glasses and like all women of a certain age – married or not – was simpering at my friend before we were through the ticket barrier. I just could not take him anywhere!

From the station it was but a short carriage ride to the vicarage where our client insisted on serving tea (and coffee, thankfully!) before she would enlighten us about the matter that had brought us here. I was keen to learn of it but of course Holmes was as charming as ever. Once the servants had withdrawn our hostess began.

“As you can see from the shelves over there”, she said gesturing across to a heavily laden bookcase, “detective fiction is a weakness of mine. I greatly enjoyed your story about your case in Oxford, doctor, and it is because of that that I have requested your presence here.”

“You wish to know ‘whodunnit’?” I remarked.

She looked at me pointedly and I immediately felt like a scolded schoolboy.

“It is not that simple, doctor”, she said clearly weighing her words carefully. “All the evidence points to one man and he certainly had motive, means and opportunity, yet something in me wonders if it is all a little _too_ obvious. As you must have reasoned there is no actual proof otherwise Constable Primrose would have made an arrest by now.”

Holmes sat back and smiled.

“Let us begin from the beginning”, he said reaching for a sugared cake (how he could eat things like that and retain both his teeth and his figure was I might add another bone of contention between us). “You are clearly a lady of intelligence so I would ask that you tell us exactly what happened, in the order that it happened.

She took a deep breath (somehow she managed another simper while so doing!) then began.

“The victim Mr. Arbuthnott was really the most _odious_ man!” she said bitterly. “I know that one should not speak ill of the dead but… really! I always felt like I needed to wash my hands after being anywhere near him. He came from somewhere in the North and rented Crossroads Court – despite the name it is really just a large cottage - next to the rugby club. He stayed there for weekends mostly and the only person he was with him was a valet or more likely bodyguard, a foreigner called Xylas of all things. I know for a fact that the fellow disliked him as much as everyone else around here; a few weeks ago he had a bruise on his face when he came down and I am sure that That Man gave it to him!”

I reflected that the late Mr. Arbuthnott was lucky that it was not him being on trial as the likes of Mrs. Black would have doubtless hanged him as soon as looked at him. And quite probably have smiled while she did it in person!

“Do go on”, Holmes smiled, shooting me a look for some reason.

“One month ago there was a lot of fuss when old Ben Morgan who had owned the rugby field died in what the papers called ‘mysterious circumstances’”, she said. “There was a lot of guff written about it by people who should have known better but the honest truth, gentlemen, is that he took his own life and that he was driven to it by That Man!”

“Why would he do that?” Holmes asked.

“Mr. Arbuthnott wanted to buy the rugby club and build houses on it”, she said. “Although the cottage is small the lands it is on are sizeable and extend round the back of the club, so he could have built a lot of houses on the two plots together. That would have put the club – the Crossroads Blues; they have people from both villages in them – out of business. I suppose that Peg – Mrs. Brewster, the landlady of the inn - should have been pleased at all those new customers but she was bitterly against the idea.”

I wondered if bitterly enough to kill. At least we were not going to be short of potential suspects in this case; the victim seemed to have upset pretty much everybody in the village!

“Old Ben was finding it hard to make ends meet living in that great big house of his out on the Bristol road”, our hostess went on. “His wife and children had all passed but their son Philip had had a grandson, young Owen, who was devoted to his grandfather. He is studying up at Bristol but came down as often as he could.”

“So, to the day of the murder. It was the day the Blues played Congresbury, our neighbours out towards the coast; Oxford and Cambridge have nothing on the rivalry that can be roused in a small valley community, I can tell you. And the place was abuzz; we had found out that Old Ben had sold the field to Mr. Arbuthnott just days before he had died.”

“I would ask you to pause a moment there”, Holmes said politely. “It seems that matters surrounding the first death are pertinent to the second one. Were there any suspicious circumstances?”

She looked disappointed but shook her head.

“Reg Stephenson, our local doctor, is a fool but he is an honest fool”, she said sounding almost regretful. “Everyone knew that Old Ben had a weak heart and personally I think all the pressure put on him by That Man was just too much for him to bear.”

“I suppose that there was talk in the village, though”, I put in. She nodded.

“There are more ways of killing someone than sticking a knife into them”, she said firmly. 

“I presume that young Mr. Morgan is studying to be a doctor?” Holmes asked. She looked at him in surprise.

“Yes”, she said. “He is nearly at the end of his course. I do not remember that being in the newspaper?”

“Because all the indications are that he is the gentleman coming under suspicion”, Holmes said, “and poison to which he would of course have had access is one of the most difficult weapons to either prove or disprove. Has a _post mortem_ been scheduled for the late Mr. Arbuthnott?”

“The doctor carried it out this morning”, she said. “Xylas said that he had no relatives, and I know that all his money went to his business colleague who is up in Scotland somewhere. There was no sign of any poison.”

I could see that Holmes was as surprised as I was. Of course a _post mortem_ examination was ideally to be done as soon as possible after the death and especially in cases that might involve a poisoning, but this still seemed hasty. Holmes thought for a moment then nodded.

“I shall need to make several inquiries”, he said, “and also to contact a source that I have back in London. Investigating two deaths will make this much harder. Did the late Mr. Morgan keep much in the way of serving-staff?”

“Not after he moved to his cottage”, she said. “A single servant was all he kept on. But Saul Andrews is as honest as the day is long; he has gone to Wells where his sister lives as the police wanted to lock up the cottage.”

Holmes turned to me.

“Doctor, it is imperative that we have this servant’s testimony”, he said firmly. “Tomorrow I want you to go to Wells and find him, then get him to tell you everything he knows. I shall do what I can here and await your return at the inn.”

I nodded, secretly excited at the prospect of a day in the cathedral city. Well, I was bound to have to take a _long_ time to find this fellow, was I not?

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The Crossroads Inn looked decidedly weather-worn, although bearing in mind its position on an exposed hilltop between the villages of Winscombe and Banwell that was hardly surprising. I noticed that the rugby pitch opposite had a definite slope to it and wondered what it would be like to play on. I had played for my local team in Belford a few times before Stevie and I had left Northumberland, and I had I think been quite good. I had been sorry to read last year that the club had been forced to close through lack of numbers, although they had 'covered' it as a merger with their neighbours in Bamburgh so some of my old acquaintances could still play.

Our hostess Mrs. Brewster was kind enough to admit us through the back door so we could avoid the inevitable gawping that strangers in a village are always subject to. Holmes wanted to explore the late Mr. Arbuthnott's cottage nearby and had already collected the key from the local police station on our way up. I however felt more than a little tired from the day’s events thus far especially as some two days back I had suffered a slight ankle sprain, so Holmes suggested that I should stay at the inn and rest. I was glad; I hoped to be ready for a lot of walking on the morrow.

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It was dark and I was reading on my bed when Holmes returned. Hearing his door close I went and knocked on the connecting door.

“Enter!” he called out.

I walked in to find that he was behind the screen presumably changing into his night-clothes. I sat on his bed.

“Did you find anything of interest at Mr. Arbuthnott's cottage?” I asked.

“It is what I did not find that was more interesting”, he said mysteriously.

“What did you _not_ find, then?” I asked patiently.

“Mess.”

“What?” I was confused.

“Most of the rooms had the standard sort of mess that any single gentleman has as part of his daily life”, he said. “Books left out, papers, the usual sort of thing. But the front room where the body had been found had been cleaned very thoroughly. I find it intriguing that whoever cleans for him apparently only does one room to such an extent.”

He came out from behind the screen and to my surprise he was not only clothed but wearing what was most definitely a new long-coat. A luxury one by the look of it, black and fur-lined. 

“What do you think?” he asked.

“It is very nice”, I said trying to keep the envy out of my voice. My own coat was well past its best but until I obtained some patients who were either richer or at least better payers it would have to serve some years yet. “Is it not a little small for you?”

He took it off and looked at it, frowning.

“You are right”, he said with a sigh. “Then it is fortunate that it is not for me.”

My breath caught. There may have been a very slight quivering of a lip. And a wetness of eyes caused by the terrible amount of dust in this place.

“Happy birthday, Watson”, he smiled. “Even if you are now thirty!”

I gave him a dirty look. Even allowing for the wonderful gift that was totally uncalled for.

Whatever, I had a new coat. A lovely warm coat in time for the worst that winter could throw at me. Although the fact that this wonderful man had shown that he cared for me in this way warmed me more than any coat.

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An excellent breakfast the following morning was followed by the arrival at the inn of a sharp-eyed young policeman who introduced himself as the wonderfully-named Constable Sigebert Primrose. I would not go so far as to say that he resented our presence but he was definitely wary for some reason, although he had brought his notebook and was evidently prepared to share what he knew of the case with us. I was eager to be off to the station and Wells.

“Mrs. Black said that she wanted to bring you in, sirs”, he said. “It seems cut and dried to me but perhaps there is something you can see that I am missing.”

“That is always a possibility”, Holmes said. “Did Doctor Stephenson have any idea as to what caused Mr. Arbuthnott's death?”

“All he would say was that it was a heart-attack”, the constable said, “and it could have been brought on by any number of things. The man was not in good physical condition; he had his own doctor back up North and I am waiting to hear from him if there is anything else we should be aware of. He was unpopular but we do not usually kill people we dislike down here in Somersetshire.”

 _Mrs. Black might_ , I though not at all acidly. Holmes gave me a reproving look and I blushed. Damn mind-reading genius!

“Mr. Arbuthnott was alive and well at a quarter to seven on the day of his death”, the constable continued. “The rugby match had finished at just before five – we won, just - and most of those involved came here immediately afterwards. The victim had been in Weston for the day and had returned to the station by the quarter to six train that was about five minutes late. He took a cab from there to his cottage; Pippin – the cabbie – remembers hearing the church clock strike as they were passing the inn.”

“Is the next station up not Banwell?” I asked. “Surely that would have been nearer?”

“Sandford & Banwell”, the constable corrected. “It is actually in Sandford; it might have been a bit quicker but the weather was showery that day so he would have faced a longer drive and likely in the rain.”

“What about his manservant. Xylas?” Holmes asked. The constable shook his head.

“He had a day off”, he said, looking distinctly depressed at the fact. “He took the train down to Cheddar and spent the day at the library there. His train back was cancelled and the Cheddar station-master confirms that he took the twenty-five past six train arriving at Winscombe just before a quarter to seven. Xylas is a big fellow so he is pretty hard to miss, plus he gels his hair for some weird reason. Foreigners! I guess he must have been anxious as he was supposed to have had dinner started for his master’s return. Pippin was back at the station when he came in and offered him a free ride home.”

“That was good of him”, I said, surprised. I knew how foreigners often found it hard to be accepted in an insular place such as this. The constable nodded.

“I suppose apart from the hair Xylas is all right”, he conceded, sounding more than a little grudging. “Pippin drove him home getting there at about five to seven; they both said they remembered the clock striking when Pippin came to fetch me after it all went down. It was clear when they got there that something was wrong because the front door was wide open. The two of them went in together and found Mr. Arbuthnott dead in the front room.”

I thought wryly that this Xylas had been exceptionally lucky that the cab-driver had been prepared to accompany him, otherwise he would surely have become the main suspect.

“People suspect young Mr. Morgan”, I said. 

“Indeed they do”, the constable said heavily. “He went to the cottage at half-past six to argue for the return of the field. He says that harsh words were exchanged but no blows and Doctor Stephenson could find no injuries on the victim's body, so he may be telling the truth. There is one other odd thing though it may be nothing.”

“What is that?” Holmes asked.

“Pippin is not sure, but he thinks that when he pulled up outside the cottage there was someone at one of the windows inside.”

“A woman”, Holmes said at once. The constable looked at him in surprise.

“What makes you think that?” he demanded.

“There was a frilly pink garter under the bed in the main bedroom”, Holmes said. “Unless the late Mr. Arbuthnott's tastes ran to _that_ sort of thing – and given his standing in the village I am sure that that would have swiftly been found out if not broadcast across the whole county - I think that we may safely presume that it was not his. Or at least hopefully presume.”

“You looked under his bed?” the constable asked in amazement. _“Why?”_

“Because that was where I expected to find it”, Holmes smiled. “Now constable, what have you _not_ told us? I presume that it concerns young Mr. Owen Morgan?”

The constable went bright red. I smiled inwardly; it was good when he saw through other people the same way he always saw through me.

“Two things, sir”, he admitted. “First, when they were checking the body, Pippin found a poison bottle that had rolled under one of the chairs.”

“Rather careless of our murderer”, Holmes observed. “The second thing?”

“Mrs. Pulling, a nosy old bat but reliable enough, says that she walked by the place and saw Mr. Arbuthnott through the window at a quarter to seven”, the constable said. “It was only moments before the church clock struck the three-quarter hour so she is sure; she always goes out at that time of an evening rain or shine, summer or winter. She said that he seemed to be having an argument with someone, but she could not see who. So she was the last one to see him alive as far as we know. But Mr. Owen says that after his confrontation with the victim he went to spend the night with a friend in Congresbury. He took his horse rather than the train but because his friend only has a small stables he lodged the horse at the George Inn. Cynewulf - Mr. Selwyn, the innkeeper there - sent me a message today saying the man handed the horse over at ten to seven at the absolute latest. Even if he had somehow stayed in the house and ambushed Mr. Arbuthnott immediately after Mrs. Pulling had seen him, there is no way that he could have got to Congresbury in under five minutes unless he had grown wings and flown there! Plus Cynewulf is one of those High Church folk, and I do not see why he would lie.”

“Lying is always a thing of last resort”, Holmes said with one of his knowing smiles. “This has really been a most interesting case, constable, but I expect it to come to a conclusion quite shortly. Most probably within the next thirty seconds.”

The policeman looked at him in amazement but sure enough just seconds later the landlady approached us, a nervous-looking woman in a plain grey dress lurking behind her and clearly very much wishing not to be seen. The constable looked at her dourly.

“Maud Brown”, he said heavily. “What brings _you_ here?”

The woman shuffled forward, every inch of her shaking figure proclaiming her fervent wish to be somewhere else.

“Allow me”, Holmes said smoothly. “This is the person who wishes to claim responsibility, at least indirectly, for the passing of the late and largely un-lamented Mr. Japheth Arbuthnott”.

The woman failed to hold back a loud sniff. The constable’s brow furrowed.

“I do not understand”, he said. Holmes smiled.

“Putting it as delicately as possible”, he said, “I believe that Mr. Arbuthnott and Miss Brown here were, as you may say, about to perform sexual congress when the strain proved too much for the elderly man. _La morte d’amour_ is thought by many to be just a fairy tale but figures show that it does happen, and rather more often than most would like to think.”

I thought back to poor Mr. Wade who had gone out the same way in our case with Doctor Adams and his 'love-potion', which had caused me maybe just a few problems as well. Miss Brown sniffed mournfully; the constable looked even more sharply at her and she suddenly burst into speech.

“He just fell over!” she burst out. “I thought he was kidding again – he'd done it before - but I went over to him and he was…. gone! Dead as a door-nail!”

Mrs. Brewster led her away, leaving a stunned policeman sat opposite us.

“I think that this case is closed”, Holmes said firmly. “The doctor and I will leave and allow your tranquil little village to get back to its deserved peace and quiet.”

I could not but agree.

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We were seated on the train back down the valley before I realized. This would mean that my day-trip to Wells was cancelled. Damnation!

“So the shady lady done it!” I said trying to distract myself from my loss. To my surprise Holmes chuckled.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Oh Watson!” he said with a smile. “How you underestimate these so-called simple country folk. Mr. Arbuthnott was murdered by young Mr. Owen Morgan, the grandson of the man he swindled the rugby-field out of.”

I stared in astonishment.

“But.... but.... the shady lady!” I objected. He chuckled again.

“This is how it was done”, he said. “There were many, many people in on the ramp; the killer Mr. Morgan, Constable Primrose, Miss Brown, Pippin, Xylas, Mr. Selwyn, Mrs. Pulling, Doctor Stephenson, Mrs. Brewster and of course Mrs. Black.”

“But…. but she was the one who brought you onto the case!” My voice sounded unnaturally high but I was still trying to grasp back hold of reality which seemed to have eluded me and have disappeared out of the train window. He smiled.

“Any suspicious death was bound to attract the attentions of the local newspapers”, he explained. “What better way to lance that boil by bringing in a consulting detective who would be there when the ‘truth’ – in this case the fabricated story that was destined to come out when the time was right – duly emerged.”

I stared at him in shock.

“At just after six o' clock Pippin drives Mr. Arbuthnott home”, he said. “The manservant Xylas who we know dislikes him and with good reason has most likely planned to ‘miss his train home’ so it will be nearly an hour before he discovers the dead body; in fact his train is cancelled anyway. But there is already someone waiting in the house for the victim. Not Miss Brown but young Mr. Morgan.”

“I would wager that chloroform was the method of stunning the victim so he could be tied up, then force-fed poison”, Holmes said as if he were not calmly reciting an act of murder. “Knowing some little of the character of young Mr. Morgan I am sure that he would wish to make sure that the man who drove his grandfather to an early grave knew of the reasons for his own demise.”

I was now doing passable impressions of a fish out of water.

“Mr. Morgan kills his prey and then has an argument – a one-sided one – that can be overheard by the obliging Mrs. Pulling who spoke the truth about that but lied about the time. He then slips out the back and rides to Congresbury, arriving there as he said at about ten to seven. Mrs. Pulling's claim to have seen the victim five minutes before the honest Cynewulf did will give Mr. Morgan an unbreakable alibi.”

“In a closed community such as this and against someone so universally hated, everyone pulled together”, he went on. “Constable Primrose was of course in on it, as was the local doctor who found no evidence of poison in the body during his very hasty _post mortem_. The poison bottle found near the body was designed to look like a clumsy attempt to incriminate young Morgan who would later be cleared by both the evidence from Congresbury and the revelation of the real 'culprit' Miss Brown. The garter was of course hers, and doubtless had we persisted she would have tearfully admitted to having seen Mr. Arbuthnott previously which Xylas, I am sure, would have 'reluctantly' confirmed.”

“His own servant”, I muttered.

“That the victim could forfeit the loyalty of the one man who might have protected him speaks volumes about his character”, Holmes said coldly. “My investigation thus far showed that he did indeed swindle old Mr. Morgan out of that field; I shall be instructing Luke to have that put right. Ah, we are here!”

I looked up in surprise. I may have been in shock but I was sure the journey back to the junction at Witham had been much longer on the way down. I scrambled inelegantly out of the carriage after my friend and caught sight of the station name-board.

‘Wells (Priory Road)’. I stared in shock.

“I know how much you wanted to visit the cathedral here”, he said with a smile, “and we can as easily take the late afternoon train. We have over five hours, enough time to explore both cathedral and town.”

I would like to say that I did not cry at his perspicacity but it would be a lie.

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Postscriptum: Through his cousin Holmes did indeed undo the wrong perpetrated by the late Mr. Arbuthnott, and I must add that the business partner Mr. Brent Cummings who inherited everything was more than helpful in putting matters to rights once matters had been explained to him. Mr. Owen Morgan wrote Holmes a most kind letter thanking him for his assistance in the case, and he later rose to become one of the most pre-eminent doctors in his field. He married and had a family but although he practised in Bristol he lived in Winscombe, despite many offers by London hospitals aimed at tempting him away.

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	14. Case 49: The Adventure Of Mr. Smith And Mr. Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. The Kuznetsov family has need of Holmes's services again, as they are unsure whether two of their newest employees really are what they seem – latter-day Robin Hoods!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In memory of the great Pete Duel who played Hannibal Heyes. An actor taken from us far too soon.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

One of Holmes's first cases, my readers will remember, involved a service to the criminal Mr. Richard Kuznetsov over his stolen painting ('The Adventure Of The Thieving Son'). Holmes had of course solved the matter and had thus spared the life of Mr. Kuznetsov's son Gregor who had stood accused of the theft. His elder son Ivan had been away on business at the time but on the latter's return did visit to offer his thanks as well, and it was he who called on us that cold day in early March.

“My father was particularly impressed that you believed in his hunch that something was not right about that matter”, our visitor said. He was a tall blond gentleman of about thirty years of age, looking every inch the typical City businessman (although given how disreputable some of the latter were, the divide between them was arguably not that wide). “We have another rather curious matter that has arisen recently and would like to ask you to look into it.”

“I shall of course be delighted”, Holmes said. “What is it?”

Our visitor took a deep breath.

“A few months ago two gentlemen came to our scepter'd isle from the United States”, he said. “Their names were Mr. Joshua Smith and Mr. Thaddeus Jones.”

I was sure that there had been nothing odd in that statement but Holmes narrowed his eyes at our guest for some reason. Mr. Kuznetsov smiled.

“Yes, I was suspicious too”, he said. “A few swift inquiries revealed the fact that they were in fact two outlaws whose antics had made even the Wyoming Territory† of the Wild West too hot for their continued presence, and had thus decided to strike out here as their ancestors hailed originally from Ireland. Their real names are Mr. Hannibal Heyes and Mr. Jebediah Curry, and they have been responsible for a string of at least ten bank robberies across the Territory.”

I still thought that a bit odd. The United States was after all a huge country, so why cross its wide space and the even wider Atlantic Ocean to come here, even if they as so many had ancestors here. Holmes obviously thought much the same from his next question.

“I am to assume that someone out there took grave exception to their activities?” he asked. Our visitor nodded.

“The strangest thing about them is that in all those robberies, they themselves never actually shot anyone”, he said. “Indeed, the newspapers over there described them as 'latter-day Robin Hoods' which was arguably stretching a point, but perhaps if banks and railway companies behaved more honourably then they might attract the public's support rather than the likes of these gentlemen. They used to lead a larger gang and in their last raid one of the men with them shot a bystander who sadly died. She, as it turned out, was the only daughter of a prominent local politician who swore vengeance on the two gentlemen and levied an obscenely high reward for their capture – _dead or alive!”_

“So they decided that the British Isles would be a safer option”, Holmes said. “Perhaps that is understandable.”

“They are cousins and still have some family in the south of Ireland”, Mr. Kuznetsov said. “I understand there is also a possibility of an inheritance but I do not have details on that as of yet.”

“Am I to take it that the three recent bank robberies in eastern Middlesex are their work?” Holmes asked.

Our visitor frowned for some reason.

“Despite what the newspapers say, the criminal world is a relatively small one”, he said. “Mr. Heyes and Mr. Curry did undertake the first two of those robberies; I know that for certain. But the third one, although they had planned it, was actually undertaken by someone else before they could strike – and as I am sure you have read, a bank clerk only narrowly escaped with his life when he was shot during it. Not their style at all.”

Holmes nodded at this.

“I assume that Mr. Heyes and Mr. Curry have denied any involvement in that affair”, he said. “The critical question. Do _you_ believe them?”

“I do”, Mr. Kuznetsov said firmly. “Like Father with that painting I am working on a gut feeling, but they know the way things are well enough. Our family has got where it is today not just by brute force – although that has certainly helped – but because everyone knows that we have certain rules beyond which we will not move. That makes other criminals prepared to do business with us to a point because they know that we can be trusted. Our American visitors must know that if they breached our rules they would be seeing the River Thames from a low and non-beneficial angle, so I do not see why they would lie.”

“One can however conceal a lot by not telling the whole truth”, Holmes said sagely. “I shall make some inquiries into this matter sir, and if you leave us your card we will contact you as soon as we have anything concrete.”

 _Before Mr. Heyes and Mr. Curry end up going for a dip in concrete shoes_ , I thought wryly. And someone really could stop with the knowing looks, damn him!

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It was a few days later and we were reading quietly in our rooms when a telegram came for Holmes. He read it, tipped the boy and said 'no reply' before returning to his chair.

“A communication from my cousin Luke”, he said. “He confirms that some time before the third bank robbery, two more American gentlemen arrived to these shores.”

Holmes's cousin had been round recently and had muttered something about special supplies and quadruple sessions; the fact that he had sat down very slowly and 'someone' in the room had been smirking the whole damn time was the sort of clues that even I could piece together. Even if my mind did not really want to! He had brought Tiny with him, and the look of devotion from the behemoth had brought a tear to my eye – although the look that he was giving Mr. Garrick as they left suggested I would not be the only one with wet eyes before too long!

“We shall be having visitors shortly”, Holmes said, cutting into my thoughts.

“The two newcomers?” I asked. He shook his head.

“I asked Mr. Kuznetsov to send Mr. Heyes and Mr. Curry to see us.”

I felt uneasy, although I knew as with the Kuznetsovs themselves that Holmes had by the nature of his job to deal with dangerous people. He obviously caught my concern and smiled reassuringly at me.

“Remember we know that most unusually for their professions these two gentlemen eschew violence, especially by the gun”, he said. “Although given that they have come several thousand miles in order to escape someone, I do expect them to be armed.”

That made me even more nervous.

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The two robbers both looked as respectable as Mr. Ivan Kuznetsov, Victorian gentlemen in infinitely cheaper but still serviceable suits. Both were in their late twenties; Mr. Heyes was wiry, dark-haired and had a round face with a worried look while Mr. Curry was a shade taller, blond and more muscular, his passably handsome face marred only by a somewhat unfortunate attempt at a moustache. Sadly some fellows just did not have it.

“Gentlemen”, Holmes smiled. “Your employer Mr. Kuznetsov has asked me to help you so let us start with a couple of names. Mr. John Stafford and Mr. Quentin Black.”

Both men started at those names.

 _“He_ is here?” Mr. Heyes asked, looking around the room as if he expected one or both of those gentlemen to suddenly leap out from behind the screen. Holmes smiled at him.

“Now which of those names concerned you the most?” he asked. “I am to presume from your quick reaction that it was Mr. Stafford?”

Mr. Curry sighed.

“Kyle – one of our gang members – lost his mask when we were coming out of our last job in the States”, he said. “He was a way ahead of us and this woman saw him so he shot her, the dolt. Elizabeth was Mr. Stafford's only daughter and he swore that he would have our hides for it. They captured Kyle and Wheat then strung them up without so much as a trial, but we got away.”

“Yet now he has come several thousand miles in pursuit of you both”, Holmes said. “Who therefore is Mr. Black?”

“His father owns the ranch next to Stafford's”, Mr. Heyes said. “He and Elizabeth were engaged to be married which would've united their properties. It's real personal with him too.”

Holmes thought for a moment.

“My next question is a little more difficult”, he said, “so I would remind you before I ask it that I can only help you if you are honest with me. Did you plan the Northumberland Road bank robbery?”

“That was not us, sir”, Mr. Curry said fervently.

To my surprise Holmes wagged a finger at him.

“That will not do, gentlemen”, he said firmly. “Sophistry is bad enough in my brother Randall's political world, and I really cannot be having it from you as well. I did not ask if you had actually _carried out_ the robbery, merely if you had _planned_ to do it.”

The two visitors looked at each other, then Mr. Heyes nodded.

“It was going to be us, sir”, he said. “But someone else got there first.”

“Were you working alone, or was this to have been with someone else?” Holmes asked.

Again a hesitation but he had broken their resistance. Mr. Heyes answered.

“We had Fireworks Fred – Mr. Peters, sir – in because of the explosives”, he said. “Yours work different from ours in the States, and in our last job they nearly caught us out when they went off early.”

Holmes smiled at that for some reason.

“It was not that funny!” Mr. Heyes protested.

“It was not”. Holmes agreed, “although one might classify it a peril of the job. It does however suggest to me just how we might relieve you of your pursuers.”

Mr. Curry coughed.

“Begging your pardon and all sir”, he said cautiously, “but.... why would you do something like that?”

Holmes smiled.

“I am not an officer of the law”, he said, looking across at me as he spoke. “I apply _justice_ , and in our country a not insignificant little document called Magna Carta requires me to provide that justice to all, from charlady via visiting American bank-robbers to nobleman. As my friend the doctor here once said, the day that someone sets themselves up to decide who does or does not get justice, society is on a slippery slope indeed. Now this is what I need you to do....”

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Fortunately the next day was at it happened one of Miss Hellingly's baking days, although that in no way guaranteed the chance arrival of any cake-detecting London police sergeants. Perish the thought!

“Hullo, LeStrade”, Holmes smiled, sending me a sharp look (which was quite unfair; I was not smirking _that_ much). “How fortunate that you _happened_ to come by today.”

 _How fortunate that the sun_ happened _to rise in the east today_ , I thought not at all cattily. 

To my surprise (read utter and complete astonishment) the detective did not immediately reach for his slice of delicious chocolate cake. I looked out of the window but no, the world was not ending nor were there pigs flying by. How very odd.

“I am going to take it home for Val”, our visitor said, blushing for some reason. “She, uh, had a fall.”

I wondered why he looked so embarrassed before Holmes's knowing smile told me just how Mrs. LeStrade had had her fall..... honestly he was nearly forty, the randy old devil! My friend smiled but obtained a small tin from somewhere and placed the slice inside it. Then he cut a second slice and handed the plate to our visitor.

“If you are prepared to give up cake for your good lady wife, then you deserve it”, he said warmly.

Our visitor almost fell on the offering. I turned away to hide my smile, and to avoid the warning look that I just _knew_ was being sent my way. Harrumph!

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We had arranged with one 're-caked' Metropolitan Police sergeant to have several of his officers outside an address only a few doors away from his police station. The house in question looked ordinary enough but, or so Mr. Heyes and Mr. Curry had told their 'friend' Mr. Peters, it was where a prominent merchant was storing a large cache of bonds prior to shipping them out of the country in two days' time. As our new friends had said that they planned to raid the place the following night, that only allowed tonight for anyone else to move in first. Which I duly expected to happen.

Holmes and I were ensconced inside the house and both of us were armed. LeStrade had four officers all watching from a safe distance; their role was to prevent any escape attempt. I fretted over two mad gun-wielding foreigners coming at us, all for a case involving two mad gun-wielding foreigners... yes, my life was strange at times. I felt even more nervous when Holmes told me to take a candle and go upstairs as I did not like leaving him, but we had to convey to anyone watching that the owner of the house had gone to bed.

It was about half an hour after I had rejoined my friend that we heard the window being forced. After only a short time it was eased open and a man eased his way in. Holmes waited until the second man was just starting to follow before he suddenly struck a match and held it up.

“Hullo Mr. Stafford!”, he said brightly.

His voice sounded horribly loud in the silence of the room. The first man stared at the gun I was pointing at him, while his companion baulked and fell back out of the window. I heard a brief scuffle outside and knew that LeStrade and his men had got him.

“Who are you?” the first man demanded angrily.

“I am the person come to arrest you” Holmes said. He gestured to a table in the corner of the room. “Over there is a document stating that you attempted to break in and steal the bonds in the safe here. You will sign it, then you and your friend will be given a very generous twenty-four hours to leave the country. If you fail to do so, I shall have you killed.”

The cold way in which he said that made even me shudder.

“If I don't sign?” Mr. Stafford asked, looking warily at me. I shook my head warningly and my finger tightened on the trigger.

“Then we shall kill you both here anyway”, Holmes said. “Soon after you will be serving as fish food for the few creatures strong enough to survive in the Thames. You have one minute to make your choice, then I shall murder you.”

Despite my knowledge that he was (probably) not going to do that, he sounded so serious that I felt myself believing him. It certainly worked on Mr. Stafford who almost fell over his own feet as he raced to the table and signed the papers. We followed him outside to make sure he and his friend were on their way, then Holmes tipped the constables for their time (and handed LeStrade a tin which, I was sure, contained even more cake!), then we left.

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Two days later we received a second call from Mr. Heyes and Mr. Curry. Both men looked infinitely happier.

“I can confirm that Mr. Stafford and Mr. Black have departed on board the 'Caroline'”, Holmes said, “and that as the ship has no ports of call _en route_ to the United States they will soon be back where they belong.”

“We cannot thank you enough, sir”, Mr. Curry said warmly.

“I also have some good news for you both”, Holmes smiled. “It concerns a small place called Baltimore‡.”

Both men frowned.

“Baltimore's a huge place on the eastern seaboard, sir”, Mr. Heyes said.

“Not _your_ Baltimore, gentlemen”, Holmes said. “Ours, the one in Ireland from which it was indirectly named. In particular some lands near it that belonged to a certain Mr. Seamus Curry. Your mutual grandfather.”

They both looked at him in surprise.

“That went to our Uncle Douglas, sir”, Mr. Heyes said. “He had four sons of his own, we know.”

“That he did”, Holmes said. “There was however a single farm which was your father's, Mr. Curry, and which should by all rights have passed to you when he died. I am sorry to say that Mr. Douglas Curry used his friendship with the family lawyer to make sure that that did not happen. Fortunately the error of his ways has been pointed out to him, as has the potential of a long stay in gaol if for some reason he felt disinclined to co-operate, and the estate is now yours should you wish it.”

Mr. Curry looked shocked, as did his cousin.

“Ireland?” Mr. Heyes said dubiously.

“I would go there for a time and see how things are”, Holmes advised. “You may find you take to life on the rugged Munster coast, or you may wish to sell the place on, take the money and start somewhere else. Although perhaps not the United States.”

 _“Definitely_ not there, sir!” Mr. Curry said fervently.

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Postscriptum: The sequence of events was conveyed through Holmes's various contacts to the American ambassador, along with a suggestion that maybe the American government might consider dissuading Mr. Stafford and Mr. Black from any further ventures across the wide oceans. Otherwise, as Holmes so rightly said, who knew what some horrible person might leak their confession to the newspapers as a result? Mr. Heyes and Mr. Curry did indeed settle in Ireland; both married local women and had large families, rising to be respected members of their community.

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_Notes:_   
_† Created in 1868 as part of a realignment of the western territories, it remained unchanged until its admission as the 44th State of the Union in 1890._   
_‡ The American city takes its name from one Cecil Calvert (1605-1675), whose title Lord Baltimore came from his Irish landholding based around the coastal village in Munster. At of 2020 the American city has about 600,000 people, down by a third in the past fifty years, while the Irish village has a little over three hundred._

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	15. Case 50: The Adventure Of The Unhappy Chinamen ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. A second circus-based case, where an Oriental gentleman is bitterly unhappy with life under the Big Top while his brother is similarly depressed over his army post. Also Lucifer Garrick undertakes some covert military manoeuvres – but Sherlock finds out!.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

One of my first adventures with Holmes after we had moved in together was that concerning Vittoria, the Circus Belle, now happily married to the knife-thrower Mr. Roderick West and with a growing family. That had been – gulp – six years ago, our second case out of Montague Street. The couple lived some distance from us over in Walham Green, so it was a surprise when the knife-thrower himself came to call on early April morn.

“I must thank you again for obtaining that job for dear Vicky”, he said, “since she can hardly have continued at the circus as a pregnant Belle.”

For once I had been of some use here, as I had put Mrs. West's name forward to my former place of learning St. Bartholomew's as part of their studies into the process of pregnancy. Holmes, the bastard, had likened it to what several of the noble gentlemen that we had rescued from the horrors of the Tankerville club did, namely standing around wearing very little while others ogled them. I did not like the comparison, and while of course I treated all those gentlemen free of charge, some of them would when coming to our house leer at Holmes in a most inappropriate manner even given their 'profession'. Even the terrible Mr. Anthony ‘Tiny’ Little, Mr. Garrick’s lover who should have had his hands full shafting the government every night as he did (Mr. Garrick would sometimes make the mistake of boasting about what he called his ‘sexcapades’ to Holmes, who I had noted always disappeared immediately afterwards to send a telegram arranging for some ‘supplies’ for the behemoth). I would have said something but Mr. Little was about twice my size, so I generously refrained.

“Always a pleasure to help beauty”, Holmes said, smiling for some inexplicable reason. “How may we be of service today, sir?”

The knife-thrower sat down. 

“The circus has recently acquired a new act”, he said. “His name is Shang and as I am sure you can deduce from that he is of Oriental extraction, Chinese in fact. He is a large, muscular and highly-skilled fighter a year or so younger than me; seven of the stage-hands come at him and he is able to fight them all off.”

“Is there a problem with him?” Holmes asked.

To my surprise our visitor blushed.

“Vicky says that there is”, he admitted. “She came to see my act recently and spoke to the fellow afterwards, and she said that she had never seen anyone quite so unhappy. I would never have known to look at him – he is the image of the word 'stoic' - but she is far better with people that I am. And at most things; I would be all over the place at home without her organizing me.”

I risked a look round the total disaster area that was Holmes's side of our main room, only to find that he was staring hard at me. Damnation!

“This sounds intriguing”, he said, still looking sharply at me. “You may tell your good lady wife that we will investigate this matter for you, and as we have your address we will forward any findings to you there. Who is the manager of the circus just now?”

Mr. West's face darkened.

“A Mr. Samuel Lee”, he said. “A sharp businessman, but not someone I would trust. Several of us found our pay short the other week and he claimed that it was just 'an administrative error'.”

“I often notice that such errors tend to always favour one side”, Holmes said, “mathematically improbable as that is. Fortunately your circus is currently not too far away up near Alexandra Palace, so we will attend a performance there and see if we can meet with this Mr. Shang.”

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The next performance was the following evening but before then there was an unexpected development in the case, and from a most surprising source. Holmes had a visit from his brother Major Carlyon Holmes, who I knew to be the only full brother that he actually liked. We had met him over the affair concerning Mr. Bond and Mr. Rider (two more gentlemen both of whom leered at my friend in an improper manner, I might add), but I still found myself sitting up straighter in his presence. _And that had better not be another damn smirk!_

Our visitor sat down. 

“You had a visit from a Mr. Roderick West earlier, Sherlock.”

I was not that surprised that he knew. Few things stayed secret in London for any length of time.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“I have a distant connection to him”, the major explained. “Cheng, a private under my command, is brother to a fellow at his circus; he showed me a flyer for it and I remembered the daft foreign name, 'Roderigo Occidentale'. Translates as Roderick West, although Cheng said he was a sound fellow. Your nosy landlady remarked that he had been round earlier.”

Holmes looked at him shrewdly.

“But you did not know that before you came round”, he said. “Why did you come, Carl?”

“We have a sort of civilian advisor in the barracks, oily little git called Mr. Arthur Nike”, the soldier said. “Cannot stand the fellow and he has no authority, but he wanted me to confine Cheng to barracks. He would not give me a reason – I think he just does not like foreigners – so I said no, but I fear he may go to the higher-ups and try to force my hand. Do you think you could find out what his game is?”

Holmes thought for a moment.

“It will seem an odd question”, he said, “but this Mr. Cheng. Is he _happy?”_

His brother was clearly taken aback at that.

“He is a soldier”, he said, clearly bewildered at the question. “I do not care how happy or unhappy he is, providing he can handle a gun properly!”

That, I knew, was not quite true. Holmes has compared his brother to the great Fairfax from the English Civil Wars, in that both cared deeply for the welfare of the men under them even if they rarely showed it. Holmes looked hard at his brother.

“All right, he is not happy”, our visitor said. “I think – and I have no grounds for this – that he is in it just to make money so he and his brother can get back to China. But that cannot be for ages yet; he has just signed up to a five-year service.”

“I somehow doubt that you will get five years out of him”, Holmes sighed. “This case is turning out to be rather more problematic than it first seemed. I shall have to approach Luke and see what he can do.”

For some reason that simple remark made our visitor blush.

“What is it?” I asked.

The major reddened even more, then sighed.

“Luke.... he may be out of commission for a while”, he admitted. “He and Tiny... they borrowed a uniform from me the other day....”

I hid a smile at his discomfiture. Sherlock's cousin certainly seemed to be a glutton for punishment!

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The following evening we visited the circus and saw Mr. Shang, a massively muscled fellow who used a combination of his fighting-stick and his bare hands to easily dispose of his seven opponents. His face was indeed stoic throughout and he was a hard if not impossible man to read. Afterwards he was (rather curiously, I thought) not available when we asked if we might speak with him. 

On our way out of the circus grounds however we were accosted by a small, scruffy, blond fellow who had clearly overheard our conversation earlier.

“You were the fellows who wanted to talk with Shang”, he said, looking around almost fearfully as if he was afraid that he might be overheard. “Meet me in the pub over the road in ten minutes.”

Before we could say anything he had slipped back into the darkness. We stared at each other in surprise.

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The young fellow turned out to be a Mr. Derek Grimsby, one of the 'attackers' whom the skilled Shang had so easily dealt with. He was about twenty-five years of age, wiry to the point that he could have taken a job as a hat-stand, and clearly nervous.

“I don't want them to see me talking to you”, he said edgily, “but this is important. It's about poor Shang.”

“Why do you call him 'poor Shang'?” Holmes asked.

The fellow took a drink of his beer.

“Mr. Lee who took over the circus of late, he’s got a hold over him”, he said. “See, Shang has a kid brother in the army, his only other family, and he's been signed up for five years. Mr. Lee knows that Shang won’t leave him, much as he wants to go back home.”

“He told you that?” I asked.

The fellow's face softened.

“It's a hard life in the circus”, he said, “but when he spoke of home – I'm probably the least emotional fellow this side of the Thames but I got a tear in my eye. But Shang won't leave his brother and that's Mr. Lee's hold on him.”

“Maybe not an unbreakable hold”, Holmes said, slipping our informant a coin that had his eyes widening in shock. “Thank you very much for your information, sir, and be assured that we shall keep it in confidence. I have a feeling that much as Mr. Lee might not wish it, Mr. Shang's circus days are numbered.”

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Numbered they were, and a low number at that. Two days later Major Carlyon Holmes returned to Cramer Street, this time with a former private in tow with him. Mr. Cheng was nothing like his brother; half his bulk and looking more a scholar than a soldier.

“All right Sherlock, what did you do this time?” the major asked.

Holmes smiled knowingly.

“I am afraid that I had to be just a little unethical in my approach”, he said, “but given the lack of ethics already displayed by the men keeping Mr. Cheng and his brother here, I can somehow live with that. I approached one Mr. Kuznetsov and asked him to 'request' the presence of two Chinese gentlemen at a certain address tomorrow.”

His brother looked confused, as did Mr. Cheng.

“Mr. Kuznetsov is a top London criminal for whom I solved an important matter some years back”, Holmes explained. “Requests from him are of the sort that non-compliance always leads to a dip in the Thames – with free concrete footwear whether one asks or no! As with all bullies, Mr. Lee knew full well who he could push around and, more importantly, who could push him around, even down into the Thames if provoked. When he received Mr. Kuznetsov's 'request' he quickly set the wheels in motion, which was why you received an urgent telegram telling you that this gentleman had been bought out of the Army; for all that he is a criminal my Russian friend is known to be most meticulous when it comes to the military. Mr. Lee doubtless believed that his employee and that gentleman’s brother would also soon be brought to an end, which was better than his being too slow to fulfil Mr. Kuznetsov's request and meeting that end himself.”

“You are terrible!” his brother sighed.

“I cannot thank you enough, sir”, Mr. Cheng said (he had barely a trace of a foreign accent). “Shang always hated the circus and like me, was just trying to raise money for a ship home. Once we have done that we can see China again.”

Holmes smiled.

“One last small favour”, he said. “Instead of being at that address in London tomorrow you should be packed and in the East India Docks ready to board the 'Merriman', which although not the fastest ship is a good one. I did her owner a small service once and he has said that the two of you can work your passage on his vessel. She sails at two in the afternoon, so do not be late.”

I seriously feared that Mr. Cheng was going to break down in tears, but he managed to hold it together until his departure with his former commander. Holmes smiled as they went, and I thought that he really was a wonderful human being in the way that he cared for people. Now if only I could get him to be a tad tidier....

He was looking at me again! Harrumph!

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Postscriptum: Shang and Cheng duly made it to China, from where they wrote Holmes a most gracious thank-you letter. Also I got to see Mr. Lucifer Garrick blush horribly when he finally came round to Cramer Street and Holmes asked him, quite innocently, about his recent 'military manoeuvres'!

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	16. Case 51: The Adventure Of The Green-Eyed Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. Being a Victorian teenager is bad enough, but when your father is first difficult over employing a most unconventional nanny and worse, then starts making cow-eyes at them, it is high time to call in Mr. Sherlock Holmes!

_[Narration by Master Peter Wolf]_

I will start by introducing myself. My name is Peter Oliver Wolf and I live in Bayswater, London. My father's name is Thomas (I never call him that as he would be mortified but then that is grown-ups for you) and my mother – frankly the less said about her, the better. She had left Father when I was only two years old because, according to my nanny until recently Miss Grainger, she had found him boring. He is, but that is no reason to leave someone in my humble opinion; many of my friends' parents are _far_ more boring, especially poor Teddy's who could remove paint with their talk. I do not wonder that he wants a job overseas when he grows up; if I had parents like his I would emigrate too!

I was lucky that I inherited little if anything from my unmissed mother. I am very much the image of my (paternal) grandfather which is good with the unusual light-green eyes but not so much with the nose that Father calls aquiline and I call plain long. Thankfully I did not inherit said grandfather's nature; it was he who married my father off against his will when he was but eighteen, and his (my grandfather's) death that according to the servants' gossip triggered my mother's departure as she was sure that as the mother of his sole grandson she would inherit something from him.

She did. _A single penny!_

I was fourteen years old at the time of this story and on the cusp of becoming a man when my life took a new turn. It started when Miss Grainger decided to retire for which I was.... I suppose I had better say sort of sorry, since that is what adults call being polite (and what I call stretching the truth way too far). She was terrifyingly efficient and not the least bit kind, but she meant well and was never actually cruel to me (again, unlike the experiences of several of my less fortunate friends). I did not mourn her imminent departure as I hoped that Father would decide not to replace her, my being as I said not that far from becoming a man. However he did so – and that was where things started getting complicated.

A colleague at the bank where Father worked had recently had a bad experience with one of the employment agencies in the city, as a result of which my own parent had decided to undertake the selection process himself. Miss Grainger had suggested that he request a short letter from potential applicants as the more able ones would be able to express themselves better that way. It certainly helped Father whittle down the applicants from over a dozen and in the end he decided that he would interview one of them first as their letter was very well written (he did not need to look at me like that when he remarked on the neat handwriting; at least people could read _my_ handwriting unlike someone that I could mention!). On the plus side he asked me to sit in with him to see if I liked the applicant, which was probably just as well as things turned out.

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On the great day one 'C. Q. Hamlin' duly arrived and was shown in. I stared in astonishment, and I was not the only one.

 _“Samson?”_ Father exclaimed.

I looked at him, then at our visitor who looked almost as embarrassed as my parent very clearly was. _Mr._ C. Q. Hamlin was very tall, about six inches taller than Father who was tall himself at a shade under six foot. Like Father he was in his early thirties if rather better turned out, although that was not difficult given said parent's attitude towards style which Miss Grainger had accurately described as 'looking like he has just thrown on some clothes at random'. His height apart the newcomer's most distinctive feature was his long black hair which hung down to his shoulders in a way which was quite shocking for a gentleman in those days. Although perhaps not as shocking as a gentleman applying for the position of nanny. And Father knew him.

That was the horrible moment when I put two and two together, far too quickly for someone of my tender years, and realized just how Father knew this fellow. Namely all those visits to a nearby molly-house that I was not supposed to know about because Samson has to be his name at...... That Place. My own father and this fellow – I was too young for that sort of mental image!

“You are a man!” Father exclaimed (he had an irritating tendency to state the obvious when under stress).

“I am aware of that fact, sir”, Mr. Hamlin said, recovering rather better than my father. “I have lived thirty-two years on this earth and in that time I have on occasion looked between my own legs to observe all that is there. As I am sure you know very well, I am _all_ man!”

I had not known that a fellow human being could turn that shade of red. My poor father looked mortified! I bit my lip to hold back a laugh; I liked this fellow!

“But.... this post is for a nanny”, Father managed eventually. “It involves taking care of my son.” 

I was I think managing to convey a sense of confusion at his behaviour which I think reassured him somewhat; he would have died of mortification if he had suspected that I knew about his frequent visits to his 'Debating Society in Fitzrovia'. 

“I am aware of that too, sir”, Mr. Hamlin said. “I work part-time at the British Library and help out in the crèche there. I have raised a brother much younger than myself from when my parents died, when I was eighteen and he was but thirteen years old.”

“You did not say in your letter that you were a man”, Father objected.

I sighed to myself. I knew that tone of voice all too well. He was going to be Difficult.

“To be fair, Father, you did not say that we wanted a _lady_ nanny”, I said earning myself a scowl for my pains. “I like Mr. Hamlin. Can we keep him?”

I could see that he was teetering on the edge of a refusal. I thought at first it was for the obvious reason that I was working very hard not to think about, but then I saw the way that he was looking at the fellow and..... oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. He _liked_ this fellow. 

The Lord seriously owed me for what I was about to do!

I put on my most piteous expression and threw in a quivering lip to be on the safe side. As usual it worked; I could see our soon to be new employee was impressed.

“A trial period”, Father said, looking cross at having been won over. “We shall see.”

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It certainly had been a trial, in every sense of the word. Having a male nanny – a 'manny' Cook called him; I sometimes wondered about those mushrooms she ate so many of – was different but fun, far better than old Miss Grainger. Mr. Hamlin's first name was Colgrevance after the knight in King Arthur but he liked to be called Colt, I think because it always reminded Father that.... no, not going there! He took me to all sorts of exciting places and he always talked to me as if I was already an adult. When you are fourteen years old and most of the way towards manhood, that sort of thing is important.

There was nearly a problem right at the start of Colt's time with us when he told Father that, some three years back, a woman had accused him of molesting her (I happened to know of the female in question and frankly I would have sooner expected Colt to have molested the ghastly Miss Harman across the street, a woman who had simpered at Father one time and made him run faster that I had thought possible). The problem had been resolved by an acquaintance of Colt's, a consulting detective called Mr. Sherlock Holmes who had proven the harridan's allegations false, and furthermore had obtained for Colt the services of one of Harley Street's top doctors. Until then he had been a mute but now he could talk almost like anyone else. There was the very slightest hesitation before he spoke but not so as anyone would really notice, although bearing in mind his other job I supposed that talking was probably not.... no, still not going there!

The downside of having Colt as my nanny though – oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. The covert looks that Father kept giving him were bad enough, plus the fact that I had to make sure I always 'missed' them, but a couple of weeks after the interview he had to travel down to Margate in Kent so he decided to make a long weekend of it and take me to the beach, which was kind of him. He had meant to give Colt the time off but when the fellow found that neither of us knew how to swim he insisted on coming. Lord, what a mistake _that_ turned out to be!

Seriously, Father could hardly have been more obvious. When he first saw Colt in his bathing-costume, he actually _whined!_ I just wanted to disown him, right there and then! Matters were not helped by the fact that my nanny turned out to be even more muscled than I had thought and.... well, I shall be diplomatic and say that he needed a costume a size larger in at least one area! I was sorely tempted to hand 'someone' a handkerchief with which to wipe away the drool. Really, at his age!

But for all that he was so muscular, Colt had a kindly heart. He very obviously saw Father looking at him – damnation, everyone in Margate saw Father looking at him! - and his reaction surprised me. He told me to be sure to tell Father how much I valued him because he would be feeling that his own looks were nothing like Colt's, and the happy smile I got when I did – he had been so right. 

Even if was followed by more simpering and drooling over someone. Ugh!

I could see why Colt asked me to 'play up' to Father because I knew that he thought little of his looks, let alone when up against someone as striking as Colt. One of the things Miss Grainger had told me was that during their short and stormy marriage my unmissed mother had never passed up an opportunity to denigrate Father; worse, my friend Llew had once said that he 'had a kindly look about him', which I knew even without the face Miss Grainger had pulled at the time was _not_ something that any man would ever wish to hear said of him. But Llew was right; Father was quite plain except when he smiled and his brown eyes lit up beneath his mess of untidy wheaten hair. All round he was a good parent so I tried to be good for him as I liked it when he smiled. He had had more than enough trouble in his life so far, the poor old fellow.

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One of the advantages of being a teenager is that no-one expects you to be the least bit subtle, so I felt quite all right with cornering Colt on the way back from Margate and asking him about all Father's leering at him. He flushed bright red.

“Your father is a most attractive man”, he said much to my surprise, “but... it is always a difficult matter between an employer and their employee.”

“But he likes you”, I pressed. “Do you like him?”

He managed to turn even redder.

“Your father is a good man”, he muttered, not looking me in the eye.

Seriously, 'a good man'? I had thought so well of him until he had come out with that sort of tripe. This needed seeing to!

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After giving the matter some serious thinking over a quarter of rhubarb and custard, I decided that I needed the help of a professional. Mr. Sherlock Holmes had helped Colt before and while asking for one's nanny and one's father to.... you know, was hardly a murder or a bank robbery, I hoped that he might be inclined to do it again. I had no other arrows in my quiver.

Mr. Holmes lived in rooms in Cramer Street, which itself I thought a little odd. I knew from reading about an adventure of his in the 'Strand' magazine that he was rich enough to afford a house of his own. Llew thought this might be something to do with his mother Lady Holmes, who he had said was a writer 'of sorts'. Very foolishly – I _was_ fourteen! – I had inquired about that 'of sorts' and he had shown me a story that said lady had written and that his mother had read to him one time.

Twenty-four hours after reading 'Father Brown' I was still shaking. I mean, a preacher standing in his pulpit while under his vestments.... how the blazes could I go to church this Sunday? Double ugh!

I supposed Llew had meant that the frightful Lady Holmes (some lady if she wrote that sort of thing!) might be less inclined to visit lodgings rather than a house, although if any relative of mine had come out with something like that I would have been looking up transport options to Timbuctoo! However once I had met Mr. Sherlock Holmes I began to form a rather different opinion. That is one of the advantages of being a quiet young fellow; you get to observe people better.

Mr. Holmes scored good points immediately for receiving me as an adult and asking what I would like to drink, rather than just assuming water or orange juice as so many people did. He was about the same height as Father and I thought that he had to be absent-minded as he had apparently forgotten to brush his hair that day, only to later find out that it always looked like that. His eyes were almost supernaturally blue and, I thought, kind just like Colt's and Father's.

It was his room-mate Doctor Watson who drew my attention more, and not just because he was physically very different. He was slightly shorter, much more the standard Victorian gentleman I thought (i.e. tidy) with hazel eyes and dark blond hair. His eyes were, I noticed, almost constantly on Mr. Holmes.

_Interesting. I might have a better chance of success here than I had first thought._

“Thank you for seeing me, sirs”, I said politely. “I suppose you must get all sorts of strange requests but I have a problem with my nanny.”

“Many boys do”, Mr. Holmes smiled. “What problem is she causing, exactly?”

“'She' is in fact a 'he'”, I said, “and that is the problem. My mother abandoned me when I was two and Father – he is interested in Colt – Mr. Colgrevance Hamlin. You helped him one time before, he said.”

There was the slightest raising of an eyebrow and an even slighter smile. I continued.

“I know that Colt likes him, but he says that nothing can come of it because he is an employee.”

I had fully expected the usual condescending explanation that adults tended to trot out at times like this, so Mr. Holmes's next remark surprised me.

“Do you see his point?” he asked.

“I did not at first”, I conceded, “but people can be cruel when it comes to gossip. I suppose some would say that Father was abusing his position if he did make an approach. But he has too low an opinion of his own looks to even think of doing that, although he is not really _that_ ugly.”

Doctor Watson seemed to be having a coughing fit.

“You are sure that your father is interested in him?” Mr. Holmes asked.

I nodded. At least I was on firm ground there.

“Just after Mother left we had a footman called Peirce”, I said. “One of those young fellows who look very fine on the outside but are rotten beneath; a bad apple, Cook called him. The other servants did not like him at all and I mostly trust their judgement. I think that he wanted to start something with Father; luckily he was on trial so I asked that he not be taken on full-time. I did not make any accusations against him; I just said that he made me feel uncomfortable which was true enough.”

“Your father agreed to this?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“I can usually get my way with him over things”, I said. “I just give him a piteous look and quiver my lip.”

For some reason Doctor Watson coughed into his hand. I was sure that I heard the word 'bacon' in there somewhere as Mr. Holmes turned and shot him a sharp look.

“But that does not do the trick with your male nanny?” he asked, turning back to me.

“It might”, I conceded, “but I want Father to be happy. He has not had an easy life what with one thing and another, and I do not want him to start out with Colt under a deception.”

“Yet you wish for me to somehow get them together?” Mr. Holmes pointed out.

“Father really does like Colt”, I said. “Seeing him in his bathing-costume on the beach at Margate – seriously, there was _drool!_ I just wanted to move to the other end of the beach! And as for the other day when they took me to the park then spent the whole time making cow-eyes at each other - if I could have done so I would have run home and left them both behind! But they are both too stubborn to actually _do_ anything. It is just annoying!

“It seems that the best way to tackle this problem would be from your nanny's side of things”, Mr. Holmes said. “Am I to assume that he is off duty when you are at school, sir?”

I liked it that he did not call me 'young sir' or, even worse as some people did, 'boy'!

“Yes”, I said. “He walks me to school in the mornings and collects me in the evenings, so he is off every day between nine and four. Although on some days he goes back to the house and prepares lessons or other activities for me.”

“You do not mind lessons with him?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“He actually makes history _interesting_ ”, I said. “Mr. Ford at school could bore for England; he probably does. Colt teaches me all the gory details although I would never tell Father that. It would shock him.”

“That is very considerate of you”, Mr. Holmes smiled. “Do you happen to know where your nanny goes when he is not at the house?”

“I know the Library said that they wished him to continue there part-time as much as he can so he works some days there”, I said. “He has his half-day Saturday. He still works at his molly-house as Samson then, and on the Sabbath. That was how Father first met him.”

Doctor Watson seemed to be having another coughing fit. Mr. Holmes rolled his eyes at him then turned back to me.

“You are clearly a young gentleman of excellent observational skills”, he said. “Colt is right; I met him through my stepbrother who owns and runs a chain of molly-houses; in a sordid industry they rank as the very best. It was baseless accusations made against him that caused Campbell to ask for my help one time. I am pleased that Colt is doing so well; he is a most trusting and kind soul and I was happy to have helped him a little with his speech problems and to obtain him his post at the Library where I know they value him very highly. I have never tried my hand at matchmaking before so I would quite like to see how I do. I think that if you come back here a week from today I should have at least some progress to report, but you may come sooner if you feel the need.”

I thanked him and left, wondering why I would need to contact him so soon.

I had underestimated him.

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Just three days later I did indeed have cause to visit Cramer Street again. It was fortunate that the house was near my school and that the headmaster did not mind me leaving during dinner-time provided I signed myself in and out of the place. Fortunately I caught Mr Holmes there although he was alone.

“Doctor Watson is in his surgery today”, he explained. “Has something happened?”

“I would say so”, I said. “When Colt came to pick me up from school yesterday he had a bruise on his face that had not been there that morning. Father was horrified!”

“Did Colt have any explanation for this injury?” Mr. Holmes asked.

I gave him a sharp look.

“He _claims_ that he fell!” I said heavily.

“I am to take it that you think otherwise?” Mr. Holmes suggested.

“So did Father”, I sighed. “He was very cross although he could hardly say anything; one cannot tell the people one employs what to do with their spare time. But he did not like it.”

“Yet as you say, he can do nothing”, Mr. Holmes agreed. “Do keep me informed of any more developments, please.”

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The bruise thing had happened on a Monday. I was planning to go to the British Library the following afternoon but events that morning once more diverted me to Cramer Street.

“Colt had a limp when he picked me up yesterday”, I told Mr. Holmes. “Even though he was trying to hide it when we got home.”

“But your father noticed?” Mr. Holmes guessed. I nodded.

“He wanted to talk to Colt about it but I managed to persuade him not to”, I said. “I had to do the lip thing again though and I do not want to overuse that.”

Over at his table Doctor Watson again coughed into his hand, and I was sure I once again heard the word 'bacon' in there for some reason. I looked curiously at Mr. Holmes who blushed.

“Sometimes the doctor gives me some of his bacon of a morning”, he said.

Another cough, and this time I heard the word 'sometimes?'. Mr. Holmes looked hard at his friend who, I noted, was keeping his gaze very firmly down. I would have too, under that look.

Perhaps I could relate to Mr. Holmes, even if these two looked at each other almost the same way that Father and Colt did. Honestly, adults! Did I really have to become one?

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On Tuesday I had walked round to Cramer Street thinking as I went and wondering just what was going on with Colt all of a sudden. It had been a pleasant enough day and while Father would not have minded my taking a cab, I knew because of my lack of athleticism that I needed the exercise.

On Wednesday I took a cab. Because this was urgent.

I burst into Mr. Holmes's and Doctor Watson's rooms much too loudly, causing both gentlemen to look up in surprise.

“What is it?” Mr. Holmes asked.

“Colt came home this afternoon wearing a chain round his neck!” 

“So your nanny wears jewellery”, Mr. Holmes said calmly. “Many people do, sometimes even gentlemen.”

I shook my head at him.

“Not a gold chain”, I said. “A _metal_ one. And when Father challenged him about it, he said he had been _ordered_ to wear it. I have never seen Father so mad; he told me to go for a long walk while he had a talk with him.”

Mr. Holmes shook his head at that.

“There is worse”, I said urgently. “I did not even get out of the house when a gentleman came and asked for Colt. A rich-looking blond gentleman, possibly a lord as he had a carriage with a coat of arms on the side. I was waiting for a cab but I heard Father yelling at him and then he slammed the door in his face.”

“I think that we had better accompany you back to the house, Master Wolf”, Mr. Holmes said gravely. 

He and Doctor Watson followed me back downstairs to the street where the latter quickly hailed a cab. I was more than a little surprised that when we pulled up that the same blond gentleman from earlier was waiting outside a house a few doors down, although there was no sign of his carriage. I frowned; what was going on?

Mr. Holmes alighted but did not seem to be in any particular hurry. Instead he walked over to the blond gentleman and spoke briefly to him. Something was passed between them that looked suspiciously like a note and.....

_Lord but I was so stupid!_

”That is what you have been doing these past few days!” I almost yelled at Mr. Holmes as he came back. “Making Father jealous!”

“A little theatrical make-up, a heavy weight strapped to your nanny's ankle, some ugly jewellery and a rich rival”, I said. “A most potent mixture. Let us see if it has succeeded.”

I led the way in suddenly feeling a bit squeamish. Of course I wanted Father to be happy above all else but the thought of him doing..... That? I mean, it was my own damn father!

Fortunately all seemed well as we found Colt mercifully fully clothed and sitting downstairs, reading. He smiled up at our arrival. 

“Master Peter, Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson”, he said. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

“Where is Father?” I asked. He grinned knowingly.

“Upstairs”, he said. “Sleeping.”

“At this time of an afternoon?” I asked surprised.

All three of them just looked at me. I stared back at them in confusion and then, far too late, I got it. So, I suspected, had my father!

“No details!” I told Colt firmly pointing a finger at him. “Or _I_ will be the one to get you fired!”

The bastard sniggered anyway then looked at his watch. 

“Ah well” he said rising to his feet (slowly, I noticed). “Back to 'work'.”

“And I really need to visit the Library”, I said fervently. 

“Make sure you have a nice _long_ day there”, said someone I no longer liked at all. I glared at him.

“Father has work tomorrow”, I said pointedly. “Just.... you be good to him, mind.”

“Even when he likes me being bad?” he teased.

_Lord above, what had I gone and done?_

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I had forgotten of course that when I returned to the house late that evening Father would want to Talk with me. Well, I very much doubted that he really _wanted_ to but he would feel that he had to. Adults!

I did not know which was worse, the grinning servants who brought in dinner or the fact that Father was very obviously someone who had spent the afternoon doing rather more than just writing letters. I was seriously re-evaluating Colt as a friend from his knowing grin, especially when a certain relative of mine yelped as he sat down a shade too fast. 

Father looked awkwardly at me and I prayed harder than I had ever prayed before.

“Uh.... Peter....”

“I know!” I said fervently. “Believe me, I _know!_ As for you Colgrevance Hamlin, thank the Lord my bedroom is right the other side of the house!”

Father blushed fiercely. Colt was fighting to hold back a laugh and I glared at the pair of them.

“I shall say Grace”, I said as the butler withdrew (I was sure I heard a strangled laugh as he went) “then we will have a quiet dinner. A very quiet dinner!”

“Save all the noises till later!” muttered someone over whom I was fast having second thoughts. Adults!

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All right, it was worth it in the end. In the weeks that followed I had never seen Father look so blissfully happy, so I tried not to think of what was happening on the other side of the house. When Father looked uncertainly at me one evening I just nodded, and he went and cuddled on the settee with Colt, who really could do with toning down that smirk a notch of twelve. They were such a pair of idiots!

But Father was happy, and that was what counted.

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Postscriptum: I was sat at our front window watching out for my friend Llew. Luckily he had been coming over anyway as he was one of the few people my age who would understand, especially since his father worked at the same molly-house as Colt. Or as Colt had done till now; I could not imagine Father allowing _that_ sort of thing to carry on much longer.

A horrible image of just what sort of form that 'conversation' would likely take made me feel queasy, and I was never more grateful to see Llew coming down the road. I had already told Freddie (the footman) where I was heading so I fairly sprinted across out of the room and across to the front door in a way that would have Father and/or Colt yelling at me if they had not been....

As I said, what _had_ I gone and done?

Llew looked more than a bit surprised when I almost fell down the front steps but I muttered something about strawberry ices at the small restaurant on the corner and he obediently followed me. Once there I filled him in on what had happened, and to my surprise he sighed.

“I wish that _my_ father could find his own Colt”, he said wistfully. “Instead he comes home from 'work' every evening and I have to pretend not to notice when he has a limp.”

“Believe you me, that is better than what I have had these last three days!” I muttered. “ Colt came down briefly to check up on me and sort out food on the first day, and the way he sprinted back up the stairs – talk about over eager! Not to mention that he smirked when he said Father could not manage the stairs because.....”

We both shuddered.

“Adults!” Llew sighed. “How do they make such a mess of everything?”

“Practice”, I said sagely. “We will do things so much better.”

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Four days later Colt moved into a new bedroom, right next to Father's. I made a mental note to never enter either room, especially after the way Father had sat down so slowly and carefully while Colt had smirked for England..... ugh!

Still, Father was clearly very happy in Colt's arms and he deserved some happiness at his age. Even if they were a pair of saps!

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	17. Interlude: Prayerful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. Sometimes, opportunity knocks at the wrong door.

_[Narration by Lady Aelfrida Holmes]_

It really was most unfortunate that my sweet little Sherry-werry was unable to come over and hear my latest masterpiece the other week, as he had some investigation that took him out of the capital at short notice. I was so sure that he would have enjoyed hearing 'Around The World In Eighty Men', about those hunky English adventurers on Sir Francis Drake's ship who imbibed a mysterious herbage during their famous circumnavigation and were overcome with the urge to repeatedly circumnavigate their commanding officer. A rough passage indeed!

I would have read it to dear Eddie but his intermittent deafness is back, and dear Doctor Greenwood says that any sort of strain on his hearing would be most inadvisable. He is a most excellent medic for someone so young; Eddie says that he is worth every penny that he pays him. He was cheering just after the doctor left but apparently it was some good news in a telegram from work.

Fortunately Randall came round looking for Sherlock – the sweet boy seems to have mistakenly suggested that he was here for some reason. I suppose that he wanted his help in another case, but as he had missed him I said that he could stay and listen to my story instead. He was so pleased with it, he said that it had brought tears to his eyes - so I said he must therefore come round for dinner this Sunday and hear the sequel 'Knots Landing', in which the seamen meet a native tribe who had an even more potent potion to hand, which makes sure that what is joined together cannot easily be rent asunder, for many a long, hard hour. Or at least not without a whole lot of screaming and watering of eyes.

I saw him praying as he left the house. I thought that rather strange; I had not believed him to be the least bit religious.

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	18. Case 52: Garfield's Last Laugh ☼

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. Not for the last time Holmes enters the world of the stage, as a dying lady finds a way to gain both revenge and a last laugh on her greedy, murderous relatives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-graphic reference to animal cruelty.

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

My very last case ever with Holmes would feature the world of the theatre, and this was an early venture into that world. It was not published at the time because amusing as it was, it involved an act which was technically illegal back then although I was sure that no twelve good men and true would ever have convicted on it, such was the strength of our jury system. This case also demonstrated Holmes at his best, solving a case without even leaving his chair in Cramer Street. Although had he tried to, he would likely have tripped over all that mess on his side of the room....

He is looking at me again!

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There was seemingly nothing out of the ordinary about the two young gentlemen who presented themselves to Cramer Street that late spring day. Mr. George Logan and Mr. Patrick Fyffe were similar in appearance in that both were nondescript fellows in their mid-thirties, of the sort that I could well imagine as minor clerks somewhere or other. The only strange thing about them was the item that they had brought with them, to wit a large cat-basket. I could already feel my allergies kicking in, even without the furry shedding-machine in person.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen”, Holmes said with a smile. “It is good to see you both again. I trust that we are not keeping you away from the bright lights of the stage?”

My face must have been a picture, for even our guests smiled at my confusion. Mr. Logan smiled at my discomfiture.

“Mr. Holmes is teasing you, doctor”, he said. “Especially considering that you did indeed see us only the other night – _when we were dressed in women's clothing!”_

Mercifully that was not as bad as he had made it sound, although given some of Holmes's cases I might understand why any reader would have assumed the worst. With my friend that was too often true!

“Of course!” I exclaimed. “You are Doctor Evadne Hinge and Dame Hilda Bracket! We saw your 'Dear Ladies' show at the Belvedere last night; it was most excellent.”

_(Holmes's rising fame was such that he often received invitations to go to such events, and as they were invariably for him and a friend, I got to go too. I was at the time somewhat surprised that someone like him bothered with such things as I had thought that he would have felt little interest in them, although he had like me enjoyed our visitors' act. Being the great detective that I was palpably not it was many years before I realized that he endured many tedious evenings solely for my benefit, in that my being seen abroad and sometimes even mentioned in the social pages – which I hardly ever read, by the way – led to many richer patients who might otherwise have shunned me requesting my services.)_

“Truly, his detective powers are amazing!” said someone who ran the severe risk of getting no extra bacon any time soon, and he could stop with the head-shaking as well! “How may we be of service, gentlemen?”

“It is like this, sir”, Mr. Fyffe said. “As you might imagine, we based our characters on real people because that makes them easier for our audience to relate to. In our home village back in Staffordshire there were three elderly sisters, and we based the doctor and the dame on two of them.”

“Where is that?” Holmes asked.

“A place called Acton Tressel, just south of Stafford”, Mr. Logan said. “That is why the village in our act is called Stackton Tressel. The two ladies were elderly when we started and of course we approached them first; it would have been most impolite not to have done so.”

“Of course”, Holmes agreed. 

“My character was based on Miss Charlotte Joiner”, Mr. Fyffe said, “and George's on her sister Berenice. Both characters in every sense of the word; we did not have to exaggerate at all. They and their younger sister Audrey all found it hilarious; we paid for them all to come down and see us here, and also when we toured the Midlands five years back; we insisted on having a performance in Stoke so they could come and see it.”

“Charlotte and Berenice died within a month of each other, two years ago”, Mr. Logan said, “so we went to Audrey and asked if she minded us carrying on with the act. You know how funny some people can get over death and all that, especially in this day and age; if she had said no we would have stopped immediately. Fortunately she was fine with it; we had been a little nervous as she had gotten deeply into spiritualism at the time, although we both suspected that that was mainly to deter the slew of relatives who by some _amazing_ coincidence had suddenly all remembered her existence just about then.”

I thought him cynical for a young gentleman, if arguably right on that. Holmes's slight smile suggested that he was thinking much the same.

“Was this Miss Audrey Joiner rich? Holmes asked.

“She was as it happened”, Mr. Logan said. “You see, she and her sister had three brothers with the family’s wealth having been distributed equally among them. All the brothers had large families so there were plenty of nephews, nieces and the like, but there was some clause that meant it only got passed onto the next generation when the one above them had died off. Audrey was the last of the six so she had copped the lot; naturally her brothers' offspring were eager for her to go,"

I thought wryly that well-intentioned as such a move may have been, it was likely responsible for many 'untimely deaths' caused by impatient relatives too many of whom had a supreme sense of self-entitlement.... and why was I thinking of a certain lounge-lizard of a brother just then?"

"They were all quite ghastly", Mr. Logan went on. "Frankly she would have been perfectly within her rights to have left the whole lot to charity!”

“Now to the strange part”, Mr. Fyffe said. “It concerns Garfield.”

We both stared at him in surprise.

“Who or what is 'Garfield'?” Holmes asked.

“He _was_ the sisters' pet cat”, Mr. Logan said, “a fierce ginger tom who pretty much hated everyone bar his mistresses. He liked us, oddly enough. He had a strange way of smirking that was almost a laugh, and he took particularly badly to all these newcomers about the place.”

I wondered if that explained the cat-basket. It did not seem particularly remarkable, but from Holmes' narrowed eyes he had clearly sensed something in that innocuous statement, and he stared hard at the two gentlemen. Mr. Logan broke first.

“Pat and I suspected – only suspected, mind – that one of her relatives poisoned the old boy”, he said. “He was getting on in years but.... you know.”

“You mean that one of the relatives came to believe that Garfield was all that Miss Audrey Joiner had to live for”, Holmes said shrewdly, “and poisoning the cat might therefore hasten her own end. Did it?”

“She died last week, only four months after Garfield”, Mr. Fyffe said sadly. “She.... it was all a bit weird, to be frank....”

He tailed off, clearly embarrassed for some reason.

“She had bought a toy cat like Garfield and was claiming that it was 'imbued with her beloved pet's spirit'”, Mr. Logan said, shuddering. “As an actor it takes a whole lot to unnerve me, but visiting her and being stared at by that thing.... ugh! It even had the same smirk as the original!”

Holmes thought for a moment, then smiled knowingly.

“I shall hazard here”, he said. “Miss Joiner left her estate jointly among her suddenly attentive relatives. However the total amount was far less than they had expected, so they not unnaturally made a fuss.”

“Not so much less as non-existent”, Mr. Fyffe said. “She had mortgaged her house to the hilt; I think that they got barely a pound† each after all the legal costs and whatnot. They were all furious!”

“She left us both a small monetary bequest, the same as all her relatives”, Mr. Logan smiled. “That went down badly, and I am sure it would have been contested had there been more money. She also left us Garfield's cat-basket, which she insisted we take and keep safe.”

Holmes thought for a moment.

“You have left part of the story out”, he said at last. “The cremation‡ that Miss Joiner asked you to perform on her spirit-cat.”

Both men leaped from their chairs at that.

“Mr. Holmes!” Mr. Fyffe exclaimed.

“Calm down, gentlemen”, Holmes smiled. “Has the cremation been carried out as she requested?”

“Yes, that was her last request to us”, Mr. Logan said, still looking suspiciously at Holmes. “Audrey was insistent that we carry it out within a week of her passing; we had to dash up there as she had asked us to scatter the remains on her grave in Acton after the funeral. But she had paid for tickets there, and accommodation if we needed it. We did not as we were in the middle of our show; we managed to get there and back in a day, returning yesterday afternoon.”

“Very wise in the circumstances”, Holmes said. “You would not wish to be anywhere in the vicinity of either the village, or for that matter near any of the late Miss Joiner's relatives. They will _not_ be pleased with you!”

“Why not?” Mr. Fyffe asked. “We have done nothing wrong.”

“Except that you have seemingly deprived them of what they consider their rightful inheritance”, Holmes said. “I do admire the late Miss Audrey Joiner. It is a very good thing that she was not of a criminal persuasion, or Staffordshire's constabulary would surely have come to regret it!”

“I do not understand”, Mr. Fyffe said.

“Miss Joiner, like many elderly people, was less than impressed at the slew of relatives who crawled out of the woodwork after her sisters' passings”, Holmes said. “She also likely suspected that one or more of them had a hand in her pet's demise, which angered her deeply. She could as you said have willed her whole estate to charity, but as I am sure she was aware such a thing would have been open to a legal challenge that even if unsuccessful would likely have drained the estate. Instead she very cleverly contrived a set of circumstances in which her money passed to the people that she wanted it to, and in such a way that it could never be detected. The master criminals of London would be in awe of her if they knew.”

“But there was no money”, Mr. Logan objected. Holmes shook his head.

“She first mortgages her estate to the hilt and converts everything that she can into cash, specifically bank-notes”, he said. “Like the more common jewels in such circumstances they occupy a relatively small space, so have the advantage that they can easily be concealed provided that the object chosen is of sufficient size. _Say, the cushion in a cat-basket.”_

Both men gasped and stared at their basket. Mr. Fyffe reached down and picked up the large cushion, unbuttoning the end then carefully unzipping it. He reached inside and drew out a handful of bank-notes. Both men's faces were a picture.

Holmes chuckled. 

“I do tip my hat to that remarkable lady”, he said, “who either today or tomorrow will doubtless be enjoying a good laugh in heaven.”

“Why do you say ‘today or tomorrow’?” I asked. Holmes turned back to our guests.

“You had to go to her lawyers' and report that you had successfully cremated the spirit-cat, did you not?” Holmes asked.

“Yes”, Mr. Logan said. “We picked up the cat-basket from them. There was a letter with it from Audrey asking us to seek clarification from you on our return to London and to bring the basket as proof; we arranged for those tickets to be sent to you for yesterday's show.”

Holmes smiled.

“Miss Joiner wisely foresaw that you might dispose of the basket and lose all that wealth”, he said. “Her lawyer will also have had a number of letters that he will have dispatched to the lady's relatives upon your departure. You see, she knew that there was the danger that they might somehow work out that you had the money – so she contrived a set of circumstances in which it seemed that the money had been inadvertently destroyed! _That_ was the point of both her sudden interest in spiritualism and the request for a cremation; the letters will admit that the estate was converted into bank-notes but will go on to say that all that money seemingly went up in flames inside the spirit-Garfield. And whose forerunner is likely with his mistress in heaven now, smirking at his killers as they bemoan their disappointment!”

Both men were clearly astonished at what had happened, but thanked Holmes and left carrying the basket with great care.

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There was a sum total of twelve hundred and fifty pounds sterling# in the late Garfield's basket, which made both young actors rich men indeed. The 'Dear Ladies' act shortly after acquired two new parts to it; an absent sister Lady Etheldreda Hook who was continually being plagued by greedy relatives, and her cat called Gareth who had come to stay with the ladies and was always leaving 'messages' about the house. Garfield therefore did indeed live on, and as Holmes said I am sure that both he and his mistress were smiling as they looked down from heaven at her undeserving and murderous kin.

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_Notes:_   
_† Just under £100 or $120 at 2020 prices._  
 _‡ Cremation was then still illegal, so even for a stuffed animal the two men were technically guilty of a crime although a jury would indeed never have convicted. It later became established through the efforts of William Prince who (then illegally) cremated his son Iesu after the boy's death in 1884. Slowly more of them happened, although it was not officially sanctioned until the 1902 Cremation Act. Mr. Logan and Mr. Fyffe could not have been tried for the apparent destruction of the money as they had not known of its existence at the time._  
 _# At least £110,000 ($135,000) at 2020 prices._

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	19. Case 53: The Adventure Of The Cardboard Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. Holmes tracks down some missing diamonds using the power of mathematics while Watson has a paid month off work (good) and an unwanted female admirer (not so good).

_[Narration by Doctor John Watson, M.D.]_

“You are developing quite a writing style, Watson.”

I looked up in surprise. Spring had come to London (i.e. the fog was a tad thinner) and the final instalment of the Musgrave case had just been published in the 'Strand' magazine. The reception this time round had been even more positive and they had requested a further story from me, going so far as to say that I could supply it as and when I was ready. I had tentatively ventured to Holmes that I might relate the events around the Wriothesley murder and he had agreed, subject of course to his viewing the finished writings before they were dispatched.

“How so?” I asked.

“The way you tease your poor readers, mentioning other cases we have undertaken together without going into details”, he grinned. “In truth it is a literary Dance of the Seven Veils!”

“Thank you”, I said. “Writing is a lot harder than it looks, let alone finding the time to fit it all in.”

Holmes coughed pointedly, and I cringed. That and the Decidedly Awkward Look which as always accompanied the Pointed Cough always presaged some remark that he knew was going to make me uncomfortable. I prepared for the worst.

“You will probably say no”, he began slowly, “but my father would like to apologize further for the insinuations that he, or rather some members of our family, made against your character.”

“He spied on you”, I countered. “That was worse. Besides, I really enjoyed the extra time that I had in Montgomeryshire.”

“One must expect some things from family”, he said equably. “But he would like that apology to take the form of paying for someone to do your work for a whole month so you can take a paid holiday.”

I was surprised at the gesture and I could see from the wary look on my friend's face that he fully expected me to refuse. I could see why; I was a proud and principled man, and I knew (although he had never said as much) that if I ever faced any real financial difficulties my friend would have insisted on helping me out. I knew that he had been pleasantly surprised when I had accepted his generous birthday present of the thick coat that had kept me warm all winter. His father had done a lot for me already, especially after my parents' deaths. 

But no way was I going to turn down four weeks of paid leave! My pride could go take a hike! 

“Why not?” I said to his evident surprise. “Who knows – these stories may make you so famous and me so rich that I do not need to attend my hypochondriac patients any more!”

We both laughed, unaware at the time of neither how true those words would turn out to be, nor of the suffering that our friendship – and what it would become - would put me through before I attained that goal. Nor how close the first of those sufferings was.

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It was I suppose the Good Lord's way of balancing the books. Good things may have happened but I was sure that something bad was already in line with a number, waiting its turn. Sure enough that turn was about to come - _in spades!_

My four weeks off had barely started when a new face came into my life. A made-up, ghastly, female face. I had known that I had some Watson cousins over in the United States – Boston, Massachusetts, I think – and had thought nothing of them until one of them chose my supposed free time to descend into my life. Miss Constance Watson was my fourth cousin, some six years my junior and, incredibly, even more forward (and even louder!) than some of her countrymen are wont to be. Worse, she was in England for three weeks and had decided that I would make the perfect guide for her time there which almost completely matched my supposed holiday. I could not catch a break! 

What made it still worse was that said female – I shall not use the term 'lady' since she was none – was single and seemingly determined to marry. Worse, to marry _me!_ I have never been good with words but short of carrying a huge flag with 'I Am Never Going To Marry You In A Month Of Sundays, Woman!' in bold letters, or simply screaming those words at her in Trafalgar Square, I simply could not get the message into her thick skull! Holmes found the whole thing highly amusing although I noted that he was careful never to meet the dratted woman himself, the coward. Which was also unfair as she would doubtless have simpered at him and perhaps have afforded me a chance to have made a break for the hills!

Matters came to a head just outside my favourite restaurant whence I had gone (fled) for a few moments peace and quiet while she was in the bookshop next door. The place was even more crowded than usual so I took my coffee and delicious chocolate cake across to the base of Nelson's Column nearby, wondering if climbing up and joining the Admiral might spare me from the dratted woman's attentions. And wishing that the four lions, added only fifteen years prior at the time, were real so I could feed her to one of them. Even though she would probably have given the poor creature indigestion!

I shuddered as I saw her come out of the bookshop and, like a missile, spot me almost at once and sail across the road towards me (without getting run over, worse luck). She had just purchased a book on love and romance, and proceeded to bore me about it for some minutes ruining my enjoyment of my cake until I said that I would have to take my things back to the restaurant. _And that was when she kissed me!_

I did it. I actually yelled 'I am never going to marry you in a month of Sundays, woman!' right in the middle of Trafalgar Square!

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My cousin quitted the country the following day. And a certain soon to be ex-friend of mine had a small article in the 'Times', about a love-affair coming to a rather loud termination in the capital, framed and hung on the wall. The bastard!

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It was a few days later and I had finally calmed down (although that damn article was still hanging on the wall!). Holmes had mentioned that he was expecting a policeman visitor who would likely provide an interesting case and it could not be LeStrade or Gregson as a) he would have said so and b) it was not one of Miss Hellingly's baking days. Sure enough a constable turned up that afternoon, a fellow in at least his mid-forties. Definitely much older than myself at least.

'Someone' was doing that not-smirk again! Harrumph!

“This is Constable Franklin Lancey from the Baker Street station”, said someone I no longer liked at all. “Our friend LeStrade's cousin. He is here concerning a bank robbery.”

I was surprised, not least because I could not imagine the constable's superiors being happy about his disclosing information to us about such a major case. I suspected that the Metropolitan Police only tolerated Gregson and LeStrade doing it because of their high success rate for which the force could then claim the credit. Holmes saw my confusion and smiled.

“The story will be all over the evening papers in a few hours”, he explained, pre-empting my concerns, “so there is no question of secrecy. The constable was kind enough to delay telling me the events of today until your return, so if you would make yourself comfortable then he can begin.”

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Constable Lancey was, I thought to myself, quite old to be merely a junior officer of the law.

“The constable worked in a bank until three years ago”, Holmes said, again showing the uncanny (and more than somewhat irritating) ability to read my mind. “As you know the Metropolitan Police Service does not usually take on men beyond a certain age but LeStrade recommended him and I assisted by speaking a few words in the right ears.”

I wondered idly a) who he had blackmailed, b) what the blackmail material had been, and c) when would he stop with the damn knowing looks?

“It is that bank that has brought me here today”, our visitor explained, taking the tea that Holmes handed to him. “Thank you, sir. The bank in question is that of Marston & Finch, doctor, a small, private and most exclusive institution in the Strand not far from Trafalgar Square.”

I reddened slightly at the mention of that landmark, given my recent 'encounter' in it.

“A location to shout about”, said someone who was definitely pushing their luck. “They have some of the richest people in London as their clients.”

“Indeed”, the constable sighed. “It was my time there that resulted in me being drafted recently, although unfortunately to little avail.”

“Drafted?” I inquired. The constable leaned forward.

“The bank recently gained a number of new clients, and as such decided to extend its safe-room”, he explained. “It was of course a time of great anxiety for the bank owners, my former employers. In order to alleviate customer concerns they asked to hire a policeman for the duration of the work; you know how news of this sort of thing gets around, sirs. As a former employee my name was requested and I was posted there during opening hours. There are also two of the bank's own employees who act as guards but they do not wear a uniform, so the bank thought that an official presence would reassure their customers.”

I rather disapproved of our capital's constabulary whoring itself out in this way, but I supposed that it kept down the taxes that paid for them.

“What about outside of those hours?” Holmes asked.

“Two watchmen patrol the area each with a guard-dog”, the constable answered. “The bank always puts its customers first, which given the sums of money entrusted to it is only right.”

“That seems comprehensive enough”, I said.

“So to the events of last night”, the constable continued, checking his notebook. “The bank closed its doors at five o' clock and I left at twenty past. The two watchmen Mr. Charles Darby and Mr. Theobald Molyneux had arrived fifteen minutes before closing; they live near to each other and catch a 'bus in. At approximately seven o' clock they heard a muffled explosion and hurried down to the safe-room. I should explain at this point that even with their keys there is a complex security system that renders it impossible to access the room in under three minutes so it was at least four after the explosion when they finally entered. They found a hole had been cut through the wall connecting to the basement next door and several safe-boxes had been forced open.”

“Do you have a list of what was taken?” Holmes asked. 

To my surprise the constable put his head in his hands.

“That was the worst thing!” he exclaimed. “They knew what they were after all right. Lady Meryton's diamonds, worth at least a quarter of a million!”

I gasped, for the Meryton Diamonds were amongst the most famous jewels in the country. As well as some loose gems the main part was a huge double necklace which the beautiful Lady Meryton wore to all social occasions. She would be devastated. Her insurance company would be even more devastated!

“There is no clue as to who stole them?” I asked.

“We have the man already, sirs.”

We both looked at him in surprise.

“Then why are you here, constable?” Holmes asked.

“Because in the time it took us to track Mr. Michael Bullen down, he somehow got rid of the diamonds and we have no idea where!” the constable groaned. “The evidence we have against him is paper-thin; he was not actually seen leaving the bank, worse luck! We can hold him for a week before charging him but if we have to let him go we cannot watch him twenty-four hours a day on the off-chance that he leads us to them. He will have gotten away with it!”

Holmes thought for a moment.

“Is there anyone that he might trust with the location of the jewels?” he asked.

“He has two sons”, the constable said. “The elder, Philip, is twenty; a chip off the old block and the two do not get on. I believe he is up in Scotland at the moment although we are waiting for the Kincardineshire Constabulary to confirm that; you never know what with trains and all. The younger son Paul is just turned eighteen and lives over in Stepney. I asked for someone there to go and check him out; they sent back to say that he is away visiting a friend in Essex but is due back tomorrow afternoon. Their mother died six years ago. There were two more sons but James got stabbed in a knife-fight and Simon is in gaol in Edinburgh. I wondered about the latter and asked, but he was involved in a fight the other week and is still in solitary confinement so I do not see how he could have been involved.”

“Did the local constabulary check his house at all?” Holmes asked.

“I do not think so”, the constable said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because”, Holmes said, “it is entirely possible that he may have contrived to send Mr. Paul Bullen directions to where he hid the loot.”

The constable groaned. 

“Why did we not think of that?” he asked.

“I suggest that you get someone to call round there first thing tomorrow”, Holmes said. “I would say to go yourself but we both know how territorial some forces can be over such matters. If you could bring any findings to us perhaps we might then be able to help you further.”

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As I mentioned some little time back, our estimable landlady the mercifully un-fragrant Miss Letitia Hellingly was then being courted by a fellow doctor of mine, one Eric Frodsham. Embarrassingly (from my point of view) they had been seeing each other since 'Seventy-Seven, before our arrival and the planned departure to the United States, and I had not even noticed until I had become jea.... concerned about Miss Hellingly asking Sherlock about something. The couple had decided to wait until they reached their new homeland before marrying as it would make matters simpler over there as regarded Doctor Frodsham's medical qualifications being accepted. 

My fellow medic was an amiable fellow although we saw little of him as a rule. However immediately after breakfast the following morning he knocked at our door and asked if we might talk.

“This is damnably awkward”, he said blushing somewhat, “so I am going to come right out and say it. I love dear Letty but.... I think all three of us here know that she is inclined to occasionally listen at keyholes.”

 _And the Pope is inclined to occasionally be Catholic_ , I thought not at all snidely. Holmes shot me an annoyed look and I wondered yet again if I really was that transparent.

_Was that a nod?_

“You know, gentlemen, that Miss Belmont has moved out of Room One prior to her forthcoming marriage”, our visitor went on. “Letty was checking the room before the new tenant moves in and she, ahem, chanced to overhear part of a conversation from Room Two next door.”

 _Chanced to overhear it by placing a glass against the wall and listening avidly_ , I thought. I got a second warning look. He surely could not....

Damnation, that _was_ a nod!

“She would not have said anything”, the doctor said mercifully not noting my abstraction, “but Mr. Holmes, she chanced to hear _your_ Christian name mentioned in the conversation. The name Sherlock is quite distinctive so I do not think that she could have been mistaken. She was sure that those talking were both gentlemen.”

“It could be some people who have read about your work”, I ventured.

Holmes shook his head.

“As we promised Miss Hellingly, there has been no reference to this house or even this street”, he said. “Unless they went around every single road within a mile-radius of your surgery they would not find us. No, this needs investigating as a matter of urgency. Thank you very much, Doctor Frodsham. If our estimable landlady, ahem, 'chances to overhear' any more interesting conversations, please do not hesitate to let us know.”

The doctor blushed again and made his exit.

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I wondered if Holmes might head off to check this strange near-neighbour but apparently he wanted to wait for Constable Lancey. It was a good thing that he did for the fellow arrived less than half an hour later bearing a large wrapped package.

“This was attempted to be delivered to the son yesterday evening”, he said. “The postman took it back to the office as it would not fit through the door and he would not risk leaving it. I hate the General Post Office; getting a parcel off of those people is harder than breaking into the bloody Tower!”

He unwrapped the parcel. It was an ordinary-looking cardboard box, about a foot all round and taped shut; whatever it had originally contained the markings had faded beyond recognition. As well as the address on the top there was some fresh writing on the sides in black paint.

“A 51, what looked like an apostrophe and a zero”, I read on the first side, turning it round. “What is this? '30 minutes and 32 seconds'?”

I looked up at Holmes in confusion but he just smiled knowingly at me.

“'7 minutes and 37 seconds'”, I read from the third side. “To finish....”

“The letter 'N' and either an 'E' or a 'W'”, Holmes said. “Most probably a 'W'.”

He was looking away from me as he spoke. Constable Lancey and I both stared at him in confoundment.

“How could you know that?” I asked.

“Was there anything inside the box?” he asked. The constable nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “A sealed box of iced biscuits and a thank-you letter.”

I thought to myself that it was a relief it had not been cake, or our visitor's cousin might well have eaten it.

“Do you have the letter?” Holmes asked shaking his head at me for some reason.

The constable nodded and handed it to him. Holmes read it quickly then passed it onto me:

_'Bully,_   
_Thanks for everything you did; you know how much I hate hospitals and the like. Mrs. Whitbury-Smith is fine now and should be out in a few days. Her sister sent you these as a thank-you._   
_I hope it all worked out for you in Essex; we both know what lawyers are like. Give vultures a bad name!_   
_Bert'._

“Was there anything odd about the biscuits?” I asked grasping for something in this case.

“Not poisonous or anything like that”, the constable said. “According to the census there is only one Whitbury-Smith living in London, a single gentleman whose family moved here over a decade ago. His mother died here and his father left for Wales five years back. The gentleman did have a sister but she married, moved to Buckinghamshire and became a Purslow. She was never a _Mrs._ Whitbury-Smith.”

“Do you know what time the recipient of these items is due back?” Holmes asked.

“His neighbour said he always returns off the four-thirty train and walks from the station”, the constable said. “He gets home just before five.”

“It is imperative that these be waiting for him and that he be aware that his father is being held”, Holmes said firmly. “Constable, was Mr. Michael Bullen was being followed by the time he reached his home. Where is that, by the way?”

“Tallis Street in Blackfriars, sir, just over a mile away. I suppose they split up to put off the pursuit; it would've been easier for him to have gone right with the rest of them. We got him coming up to his house.”

“So there were no sightings of him until then?”

The constable looked at him curiously.

“What are you driving at, sir?” he asked.

“Is Mr. Paul Bullen a smart young man?” Holmes asked, ignoring the question.

“He goes to college, sir.”

“Does he have a gun?”

“Sir?” The constable looked positively alarmed at the question.

“Does he have a gun?” Holmes said patiently.

“I believe that he does, sir.”

“Then I am afraid we will need as many armed officers† as your station can stretch to, although God willing it will only be for one night.”

“I do not....”

“You _do_ wish to re-acquire the Meryton diamonds?” Holmes asked archly.

“Sir!”

Holmes sighed and reached for a piece of paper upon which he scrawled a few lines of writing. I only hoped the constable would be able to read it; My friend's chicken scrawl made all those jokes about the average doctor's handwriting superfluous.

“I believe that the establishment closes at nine”, Holmes said, looking hard at me again. “I expect the attempt to be made soon after.”

“But surely you would want to be there?” the detective asked. Holmes smiled.

“This is very much your call, constable”, he said gently. “A successful case here could push you towards the promotion that you deserve. I am sure that even if he adds this to his 'canon' as he calls it, the good doctor will be able to phrase it in such a way as to make it look as if we merely guided you in your hunt.”

“Of course I would”, I put in.

“The doctor and I will be waiting within sight of the place anyway”, Holmes said airily. “Just in case.”

Within sight of where and in case of what, I wondered, but the constable was taking his leave, presumably to hurry off and put Holmes's plans into action.

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We had the best part of a day until our vigil began, and once the constable had gone Holmes said that he wished to make some inquiries about our curious neighbour. I guessed that he might not want me with him in this and indeed he did not ask me along.

He arrived back a little before five and was visibly upset. I sent down at once for coffee and cakes, and suggested a bath before we went out that evening. By the time he had set it up Miss Hellingly had delivered his caffeine fix, and yet again I winced as he drank the scalding hot liquid down straight off. I hoped that he would not lock the bathroom door as I was quite worried about him but fortunately he did not soak for long and was soon back with me. Although he still looked upset.

“Do you wish to tell me about it?” I ventured. He sighed unhappily.

“I must thank our nosy landlady for her efforts”, he smiled ruefully. “Mr. Penton Morris is a professional watcher, paid to monitor a target but no more. In this case paid by my brother Mycroft.”

I scowled.

“I thought you said that your father was going to back off?” I asked, trying not to sound cross.

“He has”, Holmes said, “but Mycroft is a law unto himself. He has never got over the fact that the estate is to be split between all the children rather than pass whole to him, and the fact he has has five daughters while Carl has managed five sons rankles him considerably. Plus there was the fact that Father was actually offered a barony but preferred the lesser title because he felt – rightly – that Mycroft would make a terrible member of the nobility. If the villain can 'peel off' one or two rivals by finding out some damaging information on them, he will.”

“The bastard!” I said fervently. “We have nothing to hide.”

He smiled at me.

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We could hear Big Ben striking a quarter past nine down Whitehall, as we stood behind the base of one of the lions in Trafalgar Square, not far from my recent 'encounter' with my cousin. The National Gallery was long closed and the little church of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, named from a time when this area was still unbuilt on, had just been locked up for the night. I uttered another prayer of thanks for the new coat which along with the insanely warm vests I had purchased with Sherlock's clothes voucher a few years back, was keeping me toasty-warm.

“All quiet now”, he said.

I looked at him suspiciously. Was he teasing me?

“I still have no idea why we are here”, I said, “except that we are not that far from where the robbery took place.”

He chuckled.

“Perhaps I am being a little unfair”, he admitted. “I will extend a clue to you. The note I received from the constable an hour ago confirmed what I had suspected, namely that Paul Bullen is only attending college part-time while working at the offices of the Ordnance Survey.”

“The government map-makers”, I said. “How does that help me?”

“Remember what was written on the outside of the cardboard box?” Holmes asked. “Perhaps it is an unfair question”, he quickly went on, “because the information was split in such a way that only someone like the man who will shortly be visiting the churchyard over there would know.”

“Or a genius consulting detective”, I said dryly.

“Very true”, he said immodestly. I resisted the urge to swat at him.

“How do you know that he will be going there?” I asked.

“Because if you re-arrange the figures on the box you get two sets of Cartesian co-ordinates”, Holmes explained. “Fifty-one degrees, thirty minutes and thirty-two seconds north, and zero degrees, seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds west.”

I stared at him, stunned.

“You just _happened_ to know that those were the exact co-ordinates of the church?” I asked incredulously.

“Of course not”, he said, “but from the latitude I knew that it had to be somewhere in central London if not the exact centre. Also it is a common fact that one angular minute is approximately half a mile of distance, which meant the place had to be about three and a half miles from Greenwich. That was also how I knew the letter you were looking at would be a 'W', otherwise the resultant co-ordinates would be somewhere down in Kent or possibly even in the Thames. Mr. Michael Bullen took this route home planning to lose any pursuit in the crowds. He hid the diamonds in the churchyard thinking to either retrieve them later or for his son to do it for him if he ended up inside. The biscuits and box were all arranged beforehand along with his choice of hiding-place.”

“What hiding-place?” I asked. “How would the boy know where to look?”

“Because of the contents of the box”, he said calmly.

Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a scuffle, almost immediately followed by three policemen emerging out of the side-gate dragging a reluctant fourth man with them. A fifth fellow followed them but turned and came across to us. It was Constable Lancey.

“You were right, Mr. Holmes sir!” he smiled. “Exactly where you said they were. We put some fakes in there earlier and he went straight to the grave to get them. Thank the Lord that he did not bring his gun.”

“Fortunate for him”, Holmes smiled.

“So how did you know where he hid the diamonds?” I pressed. “Was it something in the letter?”

“Yes”, my friend said. “The only unusual thing in that letter was the name, Whitbury-Smith. Mr. Michael Bullen chose that gravestone because the name was he hoped unique, then communicated it to his son who, correctly deciphering the messages on and inside the box, came to retrieve his father's ill-gotten gains.”

“Lady Meryton is going to be over the moon!” the constable said. He looked at Holmes uncertainly. “Are you really sure that you do not wish to get the credit, sir?”

“Absolutely sure”, Holmes said firmly. “I expect that you have a lot of paperwork to complete at the station now that both Bullens will be being charged. Come, Watson. Let us find a cab to take us to the safety of our humble abode.”

We bade farewell to the constable and left Nelson to his silent watch.

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Postscriptum: Holmes disposed of his brother's watcher by the simple expedient of mentioning his presence to their terrifying mother, who invited (Commanded) her eldest son to come round and explain himself. A certain blue-eyed someone was perhaps a tad too cruel by suggesting that she time the visit to one of her readings 'so that she could be more relaxed'. Lady Holmes's stories could be described in many ways, but relaxing was most definitely _not_ one of them!

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_Notes:_   
_† London's policemen were of course not armed, but officers headed onto or off duty might 'just happen' to have had their own guns with them. Purely by chance, of course!_

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	20. Case 54: The Adventure Of The Welsh Wordsmith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1882\. There is more to the 'Strand' magazine that just the exciting adventures of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson – and one of the authors of those features now needs their help to 'dig' themselves out of a tricky situation.

_[Narration by Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esquire]_

I was, I have to admit, initially unsure about the idea of Watson publishing tales of our adventures together in the 'Strand' magazine. I myself had no desire for fame or such but I was swayed by the fact that I knew that this would provide my friend a most useful income, especially as his work at the surgery was oftentimes variable as were the payments from his clients (I may have occasionally helped chivvy some of them along a bit, in a way that a cruel person might have described as threatening). I also knew, despite his never saying as much, that he quietly resented the fact that I was so much richer than him (Campbell had been right on that, worse luck!). In truth I could easily have borne the cost of our accommodation myself but I at least had the sense not to say as much to him, for he was a proud man at the end of the day.

Similarly it would have been easy to have used my or my family's contacts to have secured a publisher for Watson's work. But I knew that in a city this size that sort of thing was bound to come out sooner or later, and that he would have been mortified by my actions. It would surely have damaged our friendship, perhaps irreparably. I was grateful therefore when the publishers Brett & Burke approached him having seen his story in the magazine and asked to include it in a compendium that they were producing. The happy look on his face when he came back from depositing their cheque was wonderful!

It was Watson's venture into publishing which provided this small adventure, one which given the situation of the person involved could not be written up at the time. However I have made notes as Watson advised me and maybe one day the world can hear the curious story about the talented Miss Aneira Archer, a writer who was most definitely _not_ what she seemed. 

Mainly because she was dead!

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The 'Strand' magazine had a whole range of things between its florid covers, few of which I had hitherto paid any attention as I found them mostly facile. I read Watson's stories of course even though I had already examined them thoroughly before he sent them in; this was because I dreaded that some stupid editor would try to amend or even 'improve' things as some of the modern generation seem wont to do. I did however force myself to read through a couple of the magazines just to find out what sort of 'company' my friend's writings would have, and had considered that they were harmless enough.

That particular fine summer's day Watson seemed more distracted than usual and I knew that something was on his mind. More worryingly, that he did not feel able to tell me about it.

“Is it something that I can help with?” I ventured after dinner that evening. 

He frowned, then sighed.

“It is Aunt Aneira”, he said.

I was surprised. I had thought that he had only one such female relative extant and that her name had started with a J, although I could not quite recall it. He only rarely mentioned his family although I knew that he loved his brother as much as I loved my..... well, Carl was the only brother I could be with for any time without thoughts of murder, although there were of course Campbell, Luke and Anna. Despite the first two of those traumatizing me on a regular basis!

“Your aunt is in trouble?” I asked. He smiled at that.

“No”, he said. “Miss Aneira Archer, who writes an advice column for the magazine. I have never met her as she lives in south Wales, but she was kind enough to send me a note praising my work when I started.”

Now I remembered, the one other thing in the magazine that I had deemed worthy of attention. It was one of those 'agony aunt' columns which bedevil so many magazines, and which I had thought it surprisingly well-written considering the fluff and bubble elsewhere in the magazine (excluding a certain excellent writer of stories centred on a skilled, charismatic and irredeemably modest detective, of course).

“She is in trouble, this 'Aunt Aneira'?” I asked.

“The owners of the magazine wishes her to come to London for a series of events”, he said. “She has written to me asking if you can help her.”

I was puzzled.

“With the travel arrangements?” I asked. “South Wales is not that difficult to come from, surely?”

“The address on her letter is a place called Resolven, in Glamorganshire”, he said. “Coal-mining country. I wondered about that as there is a railway station there and trains to Swansea so it would only need one change to get to London. Perhaps she is infirm in some way.”

“I would be delighted to help, friend”, I said. “Although your advice columnist does not seem to dispense information as freely as she dispenses advice.”

“She has a very good reputation”, he said. “When they did a survey of which bits of the magazine people liked most some time back, she came top.”

“Ah”, I said, “but that was doubtless before you appeared on the scene and started scribing the adventures of London's greatest consulting detective!”

“Let us hope that she is not looking for lessons in modesty, then!” he quipped.

I shook my head at him. He really was getting quite catty now that he was in his thirties!

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This case happened at a particularly difficult time in my ever-troubled family life, to wit my sister's forthcoming wedding. I got on well with Anna and I thought her prospective husband Mr. Bernard Thompson a sound fellow despite his strange liking for medieval English music, but the actual wedding would be attended by all my brothers, which meant being around the likes of Mycroft, Randall, Torver and Guilford without inflicting serious bodily harm on any of them. Mother had stated that she would be Cross (or as my sister put it, a Level Five) with any of us who marred the great day, so I would have to wear an uncomfortable suit and spend a whole day avoiding the lot of them. Ugh!

I did of course ask Watson if he wished for me to ask for him to be invited. He looked at me as if I was quite mad!

In the event the whole affair passed off successfully, and I had the pleasure of learning afterwards that Mother had ticked off Randall and Mycroft over their attitudes towards me as of late and told them that it was going to improve. But to show that she was not that angry with them she would kindly read them, Torver and Guilford her new extra-long story about the twenty-tentacled alien that kidnapped an entire football† team from the American plains, 'Fargo'. Very sadly (ahem!) I had received an urgent telegram from Watson about a small fire near our house so I had to rush home and 'missed' it.

Yes, he did demand a large bar of chocolate in return. But between that and one of Mother's stories, there was no contest!

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While all this was going on Watson had time for a further exchange of letters with the uncommunicative Aunt Aneira. One fact did emerge; the magazine's reason for inviting her to London was that they were hosting some of their longest-term subscribers and financial backers at an exclusive event when they would be allowed to speak to some of the famous names from the magazine, including of course Watson. He had shyly asked if I myself would come along and, much as I hated such fripperies, I felt unable to say no when I saw the hope in those hazel eyes. Besides, I knew that I owed him for that telegram; he could have demanded half a sweet-shop if he had been so inclined! 

I was also distracted because Watson was unusually busy at work just then, indirectly because of someone we would shortly come across in person in another case. I will admit that our case some years back with young Mr. Stuart Billingsley, which had brought back memories of the ill-starred poor Lord Tobias Hawke, had affected me greatly, and that family seemed set for their ill-fortune to continue when that noble man's brother and successor Lord Theobald Hawke, then just twenty-two years of age, was diagnosed with an incurable illness. It might be years or even a couple of decades, but the current Lord Hawke's time on this earth was definitely going to be curtailed. Watson's friend Peter Greenwood had been asked to assist in the treatment as he was cousin to Doctor Markland, the nobleman's own doctor, which was why Watson had a lot more work than usual.

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My friend finally managed to secure a day off work and the two of us decamped to Paddington Station for an express to Swansea whence a local train would take us up the Neath Valley to Resolven. It was another fine summer's day and I was pleased that he looked well again after a recent cold that had not helped him in his heavier than usual workload. There may or may not have been some unscheduled chocolate desserts on several evenings of late. Perhaps even the odd extra purchase from our local bakery.

“It is a pity that this broad-gauge never caught on”, he said as we boarded our capacious compartment at Paddington. “It is faster, safer and superior in every way.”

“It really should never have been built”, I pointed out. “Businesses and people were always going to object to a change of gauge, and with the Great Western having taken over so many standard-gauge lines a conversion was inevitable. We should enjoy this while we can; they do say another few years and it will be gone.”

He sighed and looked round the compartment.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“Just remembering”, he said. “Eight years since I took a train just like this to Oxford and first met you.”

I smiled at the memory.

“Very true”, I said. “Also eight years since I tackled you to the floor in the middle of the night.”

And there it was, the..... scowl. Definitely a scowl. Certainly nothing that rhymed with a clout.

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We arrived at Swansea by which time I had just about stopped smirking (he was still 'scowling'!) and changed to a smart little standard-gauge branch-line train which took us up the Neath Valley. This lay a little apart from the main coal-mining areas to the north-west of Cardiff and I have to say that it was a strange and unsettling experience. The valleys had the same sort of rugged beauty as I had seen in pictures of the Dales of Yorkshire, yet the landscape was scarred with coal-mine after coal-mine and the mean terraced houses packed together along the often precipitous valley sides. It was the price of progress, I supposed.

We reached Resolven Station which was arguably the best-kept part of the small place and walked the short distance to number twelve Hirwaun Lane where I knocked at the door. It was opened by a short young fellow of about twenty-five years of age, who was very evidently a miner from his complexion and who looked at us uncertainly from beneath a tangle of black curls. He looked barely a meal away from starvation, I thought.

“I am Mr. Sherlock Holmes”, I said, “and this is Doctor John Watson. We are looking for his fellow magazine writer who works under the name 'Aunt Aneira'.”

I could sense immediately that something was wrong. He looked guiltily at us then nodded.

“You had better come in”, he said gruffly. 

We entered into a small but well-kept cottage which was very clearly a family home. I looked inquiringly at our host.

“Wife's visiting her mother with the bairns”, he said, looking warily at Watson. “You said your friend could help?”

“We would both wish to help one of the doctor's fellow workers”, I said carefully. “Is Aunt Aneira in?”

“You're looking at her!”

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That old _canard_ about a clock suddenly having a loud tick is actually quite true. We both stared incredibly at the scrawny young fellow before us. Whatever I had expected from an agony aunt, he fell short on just about every level!

“Name's Aneurin Peters”, he said sitting down in the tiny room (one could have swung a cat and hit all four walls). “I was named for my great-aunt, the original Aunt Aneira. She did a letters page for a small magazine down in Cardiff, and when the 'Strand' bought them out they asked her to continue. She got dozens of letters every week and could only answer a few in the magazine, though she tried to group them so she could help more folks.”

I sighed. I could guess the next part.

“And then she died?” I asked. He nodded glumly.

“We were struggling as it was”, he sighed. “She had a small pension but of course that went with her. The money from the column was a godsend; we'd have lost the cottage without it. Then Jess – my wife – pointed out that the money was actually being paid into my account anyway because my great-aunt had always hated banks, so why didn't I step up and become the new Aunt Aneira?”

“Um, fraud?” Watson suggested.

“No-one got hurt”, the young fellow countered, although he had gone rather red. “I was good at it; they upped the payments when they increased the size of her column – my column – to a full page spread, so it was popular and all. Too popular as it turned out; now they want me to come to London for some stupid party or other as one of their top writers. What're they going to say when all their snooty readers come in expecting to see some maiden aunt in Welsh costume, and a dirty young coal-miner steps out in front of them? They'll lynch me!”

I thought for a moment.

“What do you think was the most important letter that you ever answered?” I asked.

He looked surprised at my question.

“Poor kid whose father died down a mine in Yorkshire”, he said. “They didn't want to publish that one – said it was too sad - but I used the comments bit at the start of my page to talk to her because.... I could see how she felt. She wrote in again and said that she felt so much better for what I had said; she also thanked the magazine for publishing me even if they didn't do her letter. I felt sort of proud at that.”

“You do not therefore appear to be doing any harm”, I said. “I think that we should be able to find a way around this.”

I turned to Watson.

“Who is in charge of the magazine just now?” I asked.

“Mr. Henry Symmonds”, he said. “A bit set in his ways but not a bad fellow; I treated him one time.”

I turned back to Mr. Peters.

“I think that the best solution is a degree of openness”, I said, “otherwise we are going to keep having this problem every time the magazine asks 'Aunt Aneira' to come to London. I shall approach Mr. Symmonds and explain all to him so that he desists from making any further requests.”

“But what if he cuts me off?” Mr. Peters fretted. “We can't do without that money!”

“Two things”, I said. “First, I would not wager your financial situation in this matter. If for some reason Mr. Symmonds proves at all difficult, then I shall order my family to step in and fund you until we can find another magazine with better taste. Second, although I would be loath to do it I am sure that the owner of the 'Strand' will appreciate that someone who is a friend of a family as rich as mine should be treated fairly, otherwise he might start to find all sorts of unexpected difficulties in his life. Hopefully though, he can be persuaded to be reasonable without needing to go down that road.”

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My hopes were to be fulfilled as Mr. Symmonds was delighted to discover the real identity of his favourite writer, even if his agony aunt was now an agony uncle. I suppose from his point of view it made it likely that the column could continue for many more years which indeed it did. Indeed Mr. Peters was able to take up writing for two more publications soon after and even able to quit mining himself. And rarely for the sort of people we helped, we would come upon him again much later on after we had gone through...... a lot.

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_Notes:_   
_† Coincidentally this was the year when (American) football changed. Until then snaps were uncontested, which led to a fiasco when an 1881 Yale-Princeton match ended scoreless because both sides wished to maintain their unbeaten records. The crowds hated it and the result was the introduction of three downs after which the ball had to be handed over. In other changes the pitch was made smaller and a new scoring system came in giving five points for a field-goal, four for a touchdown, and two for either a safety or a post-touchdown conversion. It remained a tough and violent game however until 1905 when some nineteen – NINETEEN! – fatalities in a single season forced more rule changes._

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